


Playing Angel

by StrandedSeraphim



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Basically a rewrite of canon but with Caulscott, Caulscott - Freeform, F/M, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrandedSeraphim/pseuds/StrandedSeraphim
Summary: Kate Marsh jumped to her death from the rooftop of Prescott Dormitory and just when Max Caulfield thinks the worst is over, she spots the shadow of one Nathan Prescott on the same rooftop and on the same day. And she is surprised to find that she does not want him to die, no matter how many times he almost does.





	1. Lullabies

 

* * *

 

_“When the angels arrive, the devils leave.”_

― Egyptian Proverb

 

* * *

 

There’s a quote about a daughter asking her mom why the best people die so soon. The mom replies with another question, asking her which flowers she’d pick first in a garden. The most beautiful ones, the daughter says. I like to think this is why Kate Marsh just passed away. She leapt off the roof and landed on the ground like a feather from the wings of an angel, left behind as she took flight. I like to think that Kate is the angel, that she is now in the heaven she believes in, and what I saw drop before my eyes was nothing but a black feather caught in her untainted wings.

Kate Marsh was an angel even before her passing. She used to walk down the halls of Blackwell emulating genuine kindness, always sending a bright smile my way when she passed by. And then one day the smiles stopped reaching her eyes. Stopped showing her pearly whites. One day they just, stopped. Nathan Prescott, Victoria Chase, and their Vortex Club posse are all to blame. Maybe now they understand they were walking the path of monsters with how they treated Kate.

The world around me is silent as I walk back to my dorm. Warren told me goodbye when the sun set, said he needed to go run an errand in town. After that, Blackwell pretty much went into a state of quiet stillness. I’m the last one out in the courtyard and even the crickets aren’t around. Or maybe that’s just me drowning out everything after what happened. Right now, all I can think of is how much I want to curl up into a ball on my bed and cry. For Kate. For failing her. For not being able to use my powers for her like I did for Chloe.

A chill creeps up my spine as I stand in front of the dorms. It feels ominous being here again, like I’m afraid _something_ is going to happen. When I look around, it all comes back to me in flashes: the crowd frozen in time, my powers not working, trying to reason with Kate, and Kate jumping off the—

My heart stops. There’s a shadow on the rooftop.

I could just be imagining it. Surely after what happened, they’d have locked the door by now, right? It could just be a crow—a really big crow. It’s dark and the stars light the rooftop so faintly. Besides, would someone really be there on the same day that Kate jumped? Regardless of that, I find my feet leading me to the rooftop anyway, going full speed before I even realize it. I push open the rooftop door and frantically reach for my phone to use it as a flashlight. I point my phone in front of me and I see him.

Nathan Prescott.

He’s standing on the ledge with his back to me but his physique is unmistakable. I get ready to use my power as soon as he jumps, but he doesn’t. Not lowering my hand, I approach him cautiously. As I get nearer, I hear him whispering.

“That’s not true,” he says.

I take a step.

“You’re wrong,” he says.

Another step.

“Get away from me!” He whispers harshly now, and maybe he intends to yell but it gets caught in a sob.

Panic stirs in me when I think he’s referring to me but he gets off the ledge—more like falls backwards, really—and sits on the floor, clutching his head like he doesn’t even realize I’m here. Maybe he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry, Kate. Please. Please, just leave me alone.”

_Kate?_

“I—I don’t want to jump. Please stop. Please.”

There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach while I watch Nathan break down. I should just walk away. I should get the hell out of here. He’s far too deep in his head to know I’m here anyway, but I can’t. I can’t look away from his shoulders rising and falling, from his hands wiping his tears, from his body violently shaking. How could I? Nathan might be an ass and he did do some fucked up shit but he is just a kid too. I always knew that he’s dealing with issues of his own and even if that doesn’t excuse the shit he’s done, it’s hard to blame him when he’s falling apart right in front of me. And if I leave and he jumps, what would that do to me? I don’t know if I can live with another life on my conscience. Not even if it’s Nathan Prescott.

But what can I even do? My powers are useless here. I suppose I could rewind to just before Nathan enters the rooftop and lock the door but me of all people should know that there’s no place to hide from your demons. Even if Nathan couldn’t come here, he’d just be breaking down elsewhere. That wouldn’t help at all. But if my powers can’t do anything, what would that leave me with? Without them, I’m just me. And I couldn’t help Chloe with just me. Neither did I help Kate. How could I help Nathan, who might I add, _hates my guts_?

I close my eyes and think. I started having anxiety attacks when I was 8. They were so bad that even when it was over, I couldn’t sleep. My dad would check on me and find me staring at the ceiling trying to count sheep. He’d call me silly and say it never works. I’d scoot to the side and he’d sit next to me. I’d rest my head on his chest and hug him tight. He always knew exactly what to do.

I open my eyes. I take slow tentative steps toward the boy in front of me, the light from my phone guiding me, and take a seat a comfortable distance from his side. I set my phone down between us to allow a little light. I lean my back against the wall, take a deep breath, close my eyes, and it’s me and my dad in my bedroom all over again.

 _Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes_  
_And save these questions for another day_  
_I think I know what you've been asking me_  
_I think you know what I've been trying to say_  
_I promised I would never leave you_  
_Then you should always know_  
_Wherever you may go, no matter where you are  
_ _I never will be far away_

It crosses my mind to bolt out the door and stop making a fool out of myself, but I will myself to keep going.

 _Goodnight my angel, now it's time to sleep_  
_And still so many things I want to say_  
_Remember all the songs you sang for me_  
_When we went sailing on an emerald bay_  
_And like a boat out on the ocean_  
_I'm rocking you to sleep_  
_The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart  
__You'll always be a part of me_

I realize Nathan’s sobs are slowly growing quiet. I go on.

 _Goodnight my angel, now it's time to dream_  
_And dream how wonderful your life will be_  
_Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullaby_  
_Then in your heart there will always be a part of me_  
_Someday we'll all be gone_  
_But lullabies go on and on_  
_They never die  
_ _That's how you and I will be_

I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds longer and I become aware of the newfound silence around me. I’m not a singer, and the only time I’ve ever willingly sang was to join my dad in this song. I probably screwed up a few notes here and there but Nathan is calm now, so that doesn’t matter.

I finally open my eyes. I turn to look at Nathan and his face is between his knees. I can hear his breathing and I know he’s much calmer now. I hear my own and I’m calmer too. The song never fails.

It’s only now that I notice he’s not wearing his usual red jacket. It’s just the dark blue cardigan he wears underneath it. I think about calling his name to get his attention, but I’m suddenly made aware of the fact that I _sang a song to Nathan Prescott._ He’ll laugh at my face and call me a nosy bitch. He’ll get rid of me for being a witness to his moment of weakness when he’s trying to uphold the reputation of a big bad wolf. He’ll—

—jerk his head up like I just startled him, stare at me with bloodshot eyes, and bolt out of the door without saying anything. Of all the scenarios I managed to overthink in that short amount of time, that one would be last in my list. It wouldn't have made my list at all. But that’s exactly what happened.

I stare back at the door dumbfounded.

I began this shitty day absolutely sure that Nathan Prescott is undoubtedly an enemy to Kate. But now, while I sit on this dreadful rooftop that I’m fairly certain must hold some kind of evil curse, I’m thinking maybe Nathan and Kate fought a common enemy far greater than any one of us. And Nathan is still fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is inspired by a fan art I found on Tumblr of Nathan watching and waiting for Kate to jump. I thought of how seeing Kate jump could mess with his head, how it would affect him. And then I arrived at this possibility. 
> 
> I've been brainstorming for this fanfic for weeks now, rewatching episodes on Youtube, scouring the entire LiS wiki, endless research on mental health... I really want it to do justice for the characters and hopefully I can accomplish that. Meanwhile, I really want to hear some thoughts about this! Anything to say would really help. I welcome constructive criticism!
> 
> The song Max sings is "Lullabies" by Billy Joel. I didn't know this song but I found it while looking for a lullaby. I think it's perfect for the scene because the fanfic has a recurring theme of angels. More on that later, though. 
> 
> Peace out.


	2. Nachtmerrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max sorts her feelings about the day's incidents while Chloe convinces her to sneak into the principal's office, and what they manage to uncover only validates Max's suspicions about Nathan's mental state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind words in the first chapter! They really motivated me to continue writing the story. I hope you will enjoy this chapter as well!

 

* * *

           

_“Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as a raven's claws.”_

― Jim Morrison

 

* * *

  

Something has been bothering me. I’ve had this mysterious hunch to go up to the rooftop again after everything that happened yesterday. I’m not sure why, it’s like a little voice in my head telling me that I need to be here as soon as I can. So I came up here first thing in the morning and found it just as I left it last night: creepy and deserted. My heartbeat picks up faster the more steps I take. I can still see Kate Marsh jumping off the ledge. I walk closer. I look down below expecting to see all of Blackwell watching, some sick fucks with their cameras out. But there’s no one. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m just being paranoid. I have nothing to be nervous about. It’s done. That crazy day has passed and today will be better.

“Lucky you, Max. You actually get to have a better day.”

I visibly jump, startled by the sudden familiar voice. I turn to face the voice and my eyes widen. Kate stands right there, arms crossed, not a scratch or a spot on her immaculate clothes. Her golden crucifix pendant shines as its hit by sunlight. But she’s not Kate. Her eyes are bloodshot and utterly furious, nothing like the sweet and kind Kate that I knew.

“Kate?”          

“Yes, Max. It’s me, the girl you drove to suicide. Some _Everyday Hero_ you are.”

“Kate, I didn’t want that. I only wanted to help.”

“Please! You wanted people to see you be some superhero and take all the glory for saving the poor little depressed girl.”

“That’s not true! The only thing I wanted was for _you_ to live and _not_ die, Kate!”

“Yeah, like you want Nathan to live and not die? Stop lying to yourself, Max. You wished he jumped off after me, didn’t you?”

“What? No, I—”

“He deserves it, Max. He deserves to die. He killed me, remember? This is his fault as much as yours—as much as everyone in Blackwell!”

“Kate, I’m sorry—”

“Jump!” Kate yells, her eyes fixed on something behind me, and I turn just in time to see Nathan step off the ledge.

 “No!” I shout as if it could pull him back.

My eyes snap close and my hands cover my mouth as soon as I hear the loud thud that means Nathan’s body hit the ground. My panic rises.

“Now it’s your turn, Max. Everyone’s waiting.”

I hear voices. Cheers. They’re cheering for me to die. All of them, down below, I see them. Victoria. Warren. Joyce. Chloe. Mom. Dad. Everyone. They want me to die. They want me dead. Like Kate. Like Nathan. It’s my fault. They’re dead because of me.

“Don’t be scared, Max. Just follow my lead.”

Kate jumps. I lose it. I scream.

“Kate!”

I wake up.

It takes several moments with blurry vision, shallow breaths, and racing heartbeats before it occurs to me that I’m not on the rooftop but in my dorm room. I wipe the stream of tears staining my cheeks and bury my face in my hands, willing myself to be calm.

“It’s not real,” I say to myself softly.

But isn’t it? Kate is dead. That’s real. And I know she didn’t really say the things she did in my dream but that doesn’t mean they’re not real. That doesn’t mean she’s not right. Maybe it is my fault. I’ve already talked to Warren and my mom about this and they had the same thing to say. They assured me it isn’t my fault and I shouldn’t ever think this way but it’s hard not to think that there are things I could’ve done. Maybe when I tried to talk Kate down from the roof, I only pushed her further. Maybe when I told Kate to look for proof before going to the police, I only drove her deeper into hopelessness. Maybe if I wasn’t always keeping to myself and was more of a friend to Kate, she wouldn’t have killed herself.

_You wished he jumped off after me, didn’t you?_

Kate’s distorted voice rings in my head. I push it away.

I don’t deny that I did _not_ have a positive opinion of Nathan. He shot Chloe. He attacked me and Warren. He drugged Kate _and_ Chloe. And even before all that, he’s an entitled asshole and a bully. He isn’t exactly my favorite person in the world. But I still don’t want him to die. Punished, maybe, but not die. I don’t think that’s something I could ever _want._ Wanting death on a living, breathing human being just isn’t something that I think I could ever be capable of.

I remember the incident with Frank in the junkyard this morning (God, that was just this morning? It feels so far away now), how I aimed the gun at him in fear that he would hurt Chloe. Maybe I intended to pull the trigger but when it came down to it, I _couldn’t._ And Frank knew it. He taunted me and even while it made me angry that he didn’t think I was a threat—that I was some harmless flower—I still found myself lowering my arm. I know that I wouldn’t have killed Frank anyway if I had shot him but the point is that I didn’t even want to hurt him, let alone kill him. No, I didn’t point a gun at Nathan but if I had left him to kill himself tonight, I might as well have.

Nathan needs help. I always thought there’s something about how he looks on edge and restless sometimes—like he’s ready to burst into a fit of rage or hysteria. There used to be a tinge of doubt in me about that because I’ve never actually _seen_ it happen, but that’s all gone after tonight. It’s like he wasn’t the same Nathan I know, the one who swaggers around Blackwell like he’s the goddamn king and makes sure everybody is aware of it and they never forget. He wasn’t the Nathan who flaunted his family’s wealth, or the Nathan who sent death threats if you do so much as look at him funny. No. All I saw was a boy who very nearly gave in to his demons and needed help. So I helped him.

My phone buzzes and it makes me jump a little. It’s Chloe.

_I have something to show you  
meet me in front of campus_

_get dat ass in gear NOW_

Frankly, I’m too tired to do anything right now but this is Chloe and she’s not going to take no for an answer. And maybe this is what I need: a distraction to get my mind off everything. It’s not like I’ll be getting any more sleep anyway, after that fucked up nightmare. I stand and grab my messenger bag. Immediately, my eyes catch the graffiti on my photo wall.

_NOBODY MESSES WITH ME, BITCH_

This isn’t okay for him to do and neither is that fucked up photo he left on my bed. But I already got him suspended. That’s the end of it. I’ll just have to ask Samuel to repaint my wall and call it even. There’s no point holding a grudge. It’ll do nothing but put me in a bad mood and feel like shit. Besides, this was before what happened tonight.

I sigh heavily and step out of my room, making sure to lock the door in case anyone else feels like visiting and leaving any more ‘gifts’. On my way, I see Dana’s door wide open, but I let her be alone. She probably needs time to grieve. So does Principal Wells, who I saw drinking outside. I had to use my power to sneak away from him and get to the main campus.

It’s even more quiet now than it was a few hours ago. It _was_ quiet until Chloe decided it would be a great idea to scare me as a prank—after what happened today. I gave her a piece of my mind but I slipped and accidentally said I was with two people on the roof. I tried to blame it on my brain being all over the place and Chloe seemed to have bought it. I don’t think I want to tell her about Nathan. At least, maybe not now. I’ve dealt with enough crap today and I’m afraid of what she’s going to say. I’m afraid she’ll somehow think I’m betraying her for helping him. And maybe her opinion of him will change if I tell her about what I saw, but I guess I just really want to get away from everything tonight and worry about it tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or never.

Thanks to Warren, we were able to get inside Principal Wells’ office to find some clues. Nathan’s student record is suspiciously spotless. He has a 3.7 GPA and the briefest ‘brief summary’ in all of history that only says stuff everyone already knew about him. His file screams cover-up and my hunch turned out to be right because Chloe found all the crap that isn’t on his student file, including a threatening letter from his dad that basically confirms the cover-up.

“Look, it reads like a rap sheet—bad grades, teacher complaints, secret probation,” Chloe says while we browse through Nathan’s hidden files. “But I was expelled?”

There’s a list of Nathan's offenses that read:

 _\- Throwing a desk in class_  
            - _Cursing at his English teacher_  
_\- Lighting firecrackers in the bathroom_  
_\- Stealing school supplies_  
_\- Threatening the school custodian_  
_\- Attempted theft of campus “Tobanga” statue_

“At least Nathan was finally suspended,” I say, reminding myself of my decision to not hold grudges, as my eyes wander to a file named _nathan_prescott_scan_005._

“Check out that note,” I tell Chloe. “Open it.”

“That’s just some crazy drawing.” Chloe dismisses it right away, but it’s definitely not just a ‘crazy drawing’. It looks like one on the surface but it’s a little different from the other scanned drawing that just had a bunch of creepy odd faces that remind me of _The Scream._ Though there are actual squiggly drawings on this other one (Are these eyes?), the rest are words that spell out, _‘RACHEL IN THE DARK ROOM’._  

“It’s not a drawing, look,” I correct Chloe and read the words for her. “Over and over. That’s it.”

“That’s… fucked up.” Chloe raises a hand to her face in disbelief. “What does this even mean? Nathan is truly psychotic.”

I agree with Chloe’s remark, but probably not the way she means it. This only further proves that there is _something_ going on with Nathan. This drawing looks like it was made during _psychosis._ Back in Seattle, one of my art teachers mentioned that Van Gogh might be depicting psychosis in his work, _The Starry Night._ There’s a lot of debate about what exactly Van Gogh had, but some of what researches consider are Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Schizophrenia. I did a little research about psychosis drawings after that and when the drawing isn’t made by a world-famous painter, they look a lot more like this. I scoured psychology forums with Schizophrenic patients posting their drawings, which they said they did in an effort to communicate what they were seeing or feeling, or to try to cope with the illness. I can’t make this conclusion right now though. I’ll have to do some more research about it later before I pin down a mental disorder on Nathan based on one art lecture and random forum posts.

I minimize the scanned file and open a note of Nathan saying, _‘David M. always asks what’s going on in my head. David M. always helps me follow those he follows.’_

“Whoa, listen to this,” I say before I read Chloe the note. “Pretty cryptic.”

“No, it sounds like they’ve formed some sort of weird team—‘The Super He-Bros’.”

It bothers me a little that Chloe isn’t as affected as I am about Nathan’s drawings or his cryptic rambling, but I don’t comment on it.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “David was stalking Kate, hassling me, and now we know he was all over Rachel too.”

“Oh, we are so going into his garage files.”

I can’t agree more. David probably picked up on Nathan’s mental state too, but I don’t quite get what Nathan means by David helping him ‘follow those he follows’. Who does David follow? Principal Wells? He says _‘those’_ though, so there’s someone else. Chloe’s convinced David and Nathan are teaming up, and it does say in a memo that they reported Rachel being a drug mule to Principal Wells. It looks like getting our hands on David’s files will be our next step.

Nathan is mentally ill—today proves that. Regardless of that, it does look like he has something to do with Rachel Amber. But if he did do _something_ to Rachel, would it be fair to hold him accountable despite his mental state? I’m getting ahead of myself. We still don’t know for sure if Nathan has direct ties with Rachel’s disappearance. This psychotic drawing is so cryptic, it could mean anything, or not at all. It could just be a hallucination or something, can’t it? Until we get clear concrete proof, we shouldn’t be jumping the gun. At the very least, with what happened on the roof and what we found today, I think I should give Nathan the benefit of the doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I'm pretty scared about forming Max's opinions here. I'm not quite sure about them but I found it convenient that I chose to write in first person so at times, Max's opinion is really directly from my own. I would really like to hear thoughts about them, specifically on any risky ideas I may accidentally write that stereotypes mental illnesses, romanticizes it, or that I end up sounding like I'm making excuses for him. Please, I encourage you to drop your concerns and warnings for this smol writer in the comments!
> 
> I think my main problem with this story is that since I'm following the events in the game, I'm working on a five-day deadline and I started on the second day. So, things might be happening a little fast. All the brainstorming I did actually made me realize events in the game that I didn't think happened on the same day because DAMN, what a really long, shitty day. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm really excited for the chapter after next because I've already made detailed notes about what's going to happen there so please look forward to that and if you're disappointed with the lack of Nathan actually physically appearing in this chapter, rest assured he will be in the next.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @ strandedseraphim.tumblr.com for shitposts and possible updates! My Ask box is open for anything your mind desires to know~


	3. Max, Nathan, and Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I need to give a heads up to take some of Max's words with a grain of salt, as at this point she may still have some biases that need fleshing out by gaining an alternative perspective. Circumstances have made her think of this more but she really is still pretty confused. She will get there.

 

 

* * *

           

 _“You don't need wings to be an angel. You just need a heart of gold.”_

― Anthony T. Hincks

 

* * *

 

 

It takes me a second to register why the ceiling I’m staring at looks unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time. It’s because it isn’t mine, it’s Chloe’s. Even though I’ve spent nights here when we were kids, it looks so different now after all those years.

My eyes still feel heavy and unrested as I blink repeatedly to force the drowsiness away. I only got two hours of sleep after researching on Chloe’s computer about mental disorders, like I planned after we broke into Principal Wells’ office. Before I could though, Chloe decided we should push ‘midnight swim’ higher in our priority list so we ended up breaking into Blackwell’s swimming pool. It turned out to be a good idea though. When Chloe and I snooped through the boys’ locker room, I found prescription meds in Nathan’s locker. I’m a little concerned that they’re left in his _locker_ and not _with_ him, but for his sake (and my own peace of mind) I hope he has spare bottles in his room.

I hadn’t noticed Chloe was watching me last night until she said, “uh, why are you reading about antipsychotics?”

“Um,” I thought of an excuse at the top of my head as I turned my back on the computer screen spelling _Risperidone_ and _Diazepam_ in the two separate search tabs to face Chloe’s puzzled face. “I was curious. I found them in Nathan’s locker earlier.”

It’s not really a lie but Chloe didn’t look like she completely bought it. She didn’t argue though. Instead, she leaned closer to the screen and read the first Risperidone search result.

_Risperidone Oral : Uses, Side Effects, Interactions, Pictures, Warnings_

_Risperidone is used to treat certain mental/mood disorders (such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, irritability associated with autistic disorder)._

“You think Nathan has one of these disorders?” Chloe asked, her tone nonchalant, but her eyes showed signs of concern. Or maybe it was just my wishful thinking.

“Why else would he be prescribed with Risperidone?” I tried to downplay why I thought so.

Chloe shrugged and continued reading through the results in silent. I let her read a full article before I interjected with a question I’d been meaning to ask her about.

“Has Nathan always been so—“ I paused to think but no word felt right so I attempted to explain, “you know, angry and—”

“Fucked up?” Chloe supplied.

“Yeah.” I decided I’d just agree.

“I used to think he’s just a weird kid who’s a little lost about who he is,” Chloe explained while she played with the scroll bar. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s always been a dick, but he used to be more of a loner—you know, the whole dark and brooding type.”

Her hand that was on the computer mouse stopped abruptly and she added sternly, “but that’s a shit long time before he roofied me and pulled a fucking gun on me in the bathroom.”

A heavy silence encompassed us, in which I forced my thoughts to focus on an empty white space in the computer screen because God knows they’d be swirling through a thousand anxious thoughts otherwise.

“Even if Nathan is sick in the head, that doesn’t excuse him being a fucking bastard, Max.”

“I know,” was what I said.

I meant it and I mean it still. I’m not at all thinking that Nathan’s just off the hook for everything he did because he’s ill—that isn’t what I feel at all. It’s just that… I empathize with him. Is it wrong for me to? And is it wrong that I want to help Nathan? Nobody was really able to help Kate and because of that, she’s gone. I can’t help but think there’s a lesson to learn from that, that we should stop acting like bystanders to those around us who need help.

Unfortunately, you can’t accurately diagnose someone from reading on the internet about mental disorders and it didn’t help that they shared pretty common symptoms with each other. The worst part is I don’t really know Nathan enough to know all the symptoms he exhibits. But I guess it doesn’t really matter what exactly it is that Nathan is dealing with. (Though it would really help if I knew.) The bottom line is that it’s not something anyone should be dealing with on their own. Nathan has friends but I’m not so sure they’re helping him right. They don’t say anything about him taking drugs or alcohol—hell, they probably join him—but it’s dangerous to be on those while you’re taking antipsychotics. And I get it. Nathan isn’t my responsibility. We’re not even friends—fuck, we’re like enemies. But if that’s the only thing standing in my way then I’m going to change that from now on. Besides, we _are_ still investigating him and being his friend will make that easier. I don’t want to have to fight with him or do anything to provoke him.

“Photobomb!” Chloe says a little too loud for the morning and it startles me a bit because I thought she was still asleep when I grabbed my camera to snap a photo of us.

“Photo-hog,” I say before snapping the photo.

I wish we could just hang out all morning like we used to, but I have class later today. I roll off Chloe’s bed and walk to my clothes on the computer chair and immediately my nose is overwhelmed by the scent of chemicals when I pick up my jacket.

“Ew. Still reeks like a chlorine factory,” I say as I put my jacket back on the chair.

“See if you can find a suitable outfit in my fashion hole,” Chloe offers.

I open Chloe’s closet and I see just what I expect. Everything’s pretty punk rock: skulls and other dark symbols, black or almost black. There’s some plaid too. My eyes catch the red flannel.

“Hey, there you go! Rachel left a bunch of her clothes with me. She’s your size.” Chloe makes her way to me from the bed.

This red flannel is Rachel’s? It feels a little weird to be wearing someone else’s clothes without their permission, especially when they’re missing and all, but it’s either this or skulls and crossbones so I’ll take this, thanks. Besides, it might be cool to try out a different style.

“Stop second guessing yourself, Max!” Chloe pushes me lightly. “Put this on and let your inner punk-rock girl come out! You can afford to take chances!”

I want to tell Chloe that I’ve already decided to take the clothes and agree with her but I let her go on instead.

“For example, I dare you to kiss me!”

“What?”

“I double dare you. Kiss me now.”

Kiss Chloe? I don’t consider myself a romantic or anything but I still won’t kiss somebody if I don’t mean it. It’s just a meaningless dare to Chloe but there’s enough things in this world losing its value and authenticity. A kiss is supposed to be an affirmation of your feelings for someone. I love Chloe, but not that way. She’s my best friend, my partner-in-crime, but not my lover. And I don’t want to send her the wrong idea in any way.

I shake my head no and cross my arms. “Sorry, not that easy.”

“Oh, like I am? But now I can text Warren that you’re saving yourself all for him,” Chloe teases as she walks back to her bed.

Warren’s a good friend. He’s kept me company since I started in Blackwell but I’m not sure I like him that way either. He tries to impress me and stuff but I’m just not looking for romance right now. Why does everyone assume that because I’m a teenage girl, I must want to be with someone? Right now I’m just trying to get by in high school and even that is already too much for me. How could I handle a relationship on top of that? It’ll come to me when it does but I won’t be looking for it until then.

I have more important matters to deal with, like my crazy new powers, Rachel Amber’s disappearance, and Nathan Prescott. Chloe is convinced he’s our primary suspect and although I don’t necessarily agree to jump into conclusions, he does appear prominently in our investigation so far. But I snooped through David’s garage after breakfast and found surveillance files on Rachel and Frank, so I convinced Chloe to look into our new lead and infiltrate his RV.

She wasn’t too happy about it, especially after I refused to pick sides between her and David. Luckily, Joyce intervened and dismissed Chloe and David’s fight before Chloe could pressure me to choose. I didn’t want to get involved—and definitely not when Joyce was in the room. She’d just given me a polaroid of me and Chloe from an old photo album of William’s shots. I could see the sadness in Joyce’s eyes while we browsed through the album together and I wanted nothing more than for her to be happy again. Chloe and I might not get it but David makes Joyce happy. Besides, that was between their family and had nothing to do with me.

Chloe and I split up to execute our plan to get into Frank’s RV. She deals with Frank’s dog and I go all _Groundhog Day_ in Two Whales to get Frank’s keys. What surprises me is that Nathan is in the diner too. Though I guess when I take into account that I got him suspended and gave him a bunch of free time, it starts making a little sense. Still, I guess I just didn’t expect the richest teenager in Arcadia Bay wanting to have a greasy meal at a cheap diner. But what’s really more surprising is how ordinary he looks. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that he’s supposed to look like a mess or anything but he looks exactly like he would have a week ago sitting in that booth with his camera and a can of soda. Apart from the unlikely setting, he is very much the Nathan Prescott I knew well.  

“Rachel?” Nathan turns to me expectantly but his expression is quickly replaced with hostility when he realizes I’m not Rachel. “Uh—whateverthefuck.”

“Uh,” comes out of my stupid mouth while I think of what to say but my mind is too preoccupied with why people are mistaking me for Rachel. Joyce had too at breakfast, and David called it my Rachel Amber Halloween costume. I don’t think I’m such a dead ringer for Rachel though, even with her clothes on. She’s cooler and prettier and I’m just me.

“Oh, look: _Max Amber_ ,” he says while he puts a fist on the table. He makes a show of checking my clothes out before he adds with no less sarcasm, “nice outfit.”

Nathan goes on about something I’m sure isn’t polite small talk but I’m too distracted to process his words. I just don’t understand. I thought he’d be different after—I mean, I don’t really know what I was expecting but I guess I hoped he’d at least be more civil with me.

“Cat got your tongue, Crackfield?” I hear Nathan say as I snap out of my thoughts. “If I knew, I would’ve brought a fucking cat to the bathroom with me too.”

I do my best to ignore his childish insults and force my voice to sound firm when I reply, “considering we’re in a public diner with a police officer right over there, you shouldn’t advertise your rage, Prescott.”

“Oh yeah? You shouldn’t have bitch snitched on me to that fucked up principal!”

I nervously glance at the police officer sitting at the counter and find him uninterestedly stirring his cup of coffee, even yawning for effect. My eyes scan the rest of the diner and no one has done as much as look our way even with Nathan’s voice practically ringing in the whole damn diner. No one cares. I turn back to Nathan and he’s looking at me with his eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed. It could be anger but his eyes dart around my face like he’s studying me.

I remind myself why I came to the diner in the first place. My priority is getting the keys from Frank. I just need to say the right thing to get him to put his keys on the table so I can take them and rewind.

I clear my throat.

“Talk to you later,” I say and turn on my heel.

I hear Nathan grumble, “whatever.”

Funny enough, even though Nathan clearly wasn’t in the mood for any of my questions, one of his answers ended up being the one that scored me Frank’s keys. All I had to do was ask Frank about the photo he took of Rachel and the bastard fished it out of his pocket along with his keys. Nathan was either irritable or angry whenever he answered me, and I swear a little red vein popped on the side of his head when I asked about his dad (whom he so affectionately called an asshole, by the way). I tried to tell him that maybe I could help but he just gets angrier and tells me to stay out of his business. I really hoped that after last night, our mutual despisement of each other would disintegrate and transform into mutual respect in the very least. Maybe I got too carried away about wanting to help Nathan that I forgot to stop to consider if he _wants_ me to help him.

But I think back on my childhood, seven-year-old me obsessing over building a spaceship using _Lego_ blocks and refusing to let my dad do as much as touch the pieces. I was convinced I needed to build it all by myself because I was the captain. I remember holding the half-built spaceship in my little left hand and a piece on my right to form the tail. It wouldn’t connect to the rest of pieces but I pressed them tighter together with all the force a seven-year-old little girl could possibly make and before I knew it, SS Maximus was in shambles and dozens of _Lego_ pieces flew to unseen corners of my bedroom. I remember crying because I spent the whole day putting it together. My dad came in and scanned my _Lego-_ littered bedroom and I was so sure he was going to yell at me but instead he kneeled on the floor so he was at my level and he smiled. “Captain, let’s repair the ship and make it indestructible,” he said. We looked for all of the lost pieces and stayed up all night rebuilding the ship—or at least my dad did. I fell asleep halfway and when I woke up in the morning, SS Maximus was sitting on my desk waiting for Captain Max Caulfield to fly it to the next galaxy.

Just because someone says they don’t want help doesn’t mean they don’t need it, nor does it mean they won’t be grateful when you lend them a hand in picking up the shattered pieces. Nathan may be trying to convince himself he doesn’t need anyone to help him hold everything together but I’m determined to show him an extra hand will make a sturdier hold. I can’t just give up without at least trying harder. I may be the only one who even tries. I’ve got to try harder.

I turn my head to the window behind Frank’s seat and see Chloe smoking a cigarette while leaning behind a brick wall. I can afford a little time out, I conclude, and make my way to talk to the waitress behind the counter.

“Two orders of pancakes, please,” I tell the apron-clad brunette. It must be Joyce’s day off but I’m hoping she passed the recipe on.

“Someone’s hungry,” the waitress muses. I laugh nervously.

“The other one’s for that table,” I clarify, pointing my thumb to the booth near the far end of the diner. The eyes of the waitress follow, and I have to hold my breath while I watch her intrigued expression. She glances between me and back to it before she smiles a smile that looks more like a smirk.

 “You got it.” She replies and repeats my order out loud for the cook.

I sit at the counter and wait for a few minutes, which I spend convincing myself I’m doing a good thing and I have nothing to be nervous about. A few feet to my right, Nathan sits in a booth with his camera and a single can of soda that just seems to never run out. (Though it’s probably all my rewinding that made it look that way.) He’s constantly shaking his legs like he’s waiting for somebody but the person is almost an hour late and his patience is running out. Earlier I thought he was just doing that to nonverbally communicate that he wants me to beat it and stop pestering him but I guess I was wrong.

“Order up,” the waitress says as she sets a plate of heavenly smelling pancakes before me. I thank her and take the plate along with a fork and a knife before making my way toward the boy in the red jacket.

He has his head turned to the window when I stand at the side of his table and put the plate down in front of him. As the plate makes a sound when it meets the plastic surface, he looks down at it and then up at me with a questioning eyebrow.

“Did someone order some pancakes?” I try, forcing a smile that must look more awkward than charming.

“Fuck off. I didn’t order any shit ass pancakes.”

“Oh.”

I’m both disappointed in how fast he shot me down and that he just insulted pancakes.

“You should have them anyway. They’re _really_ good.”

“I’m _fucking_ _great,_ Caulfield. Take your stupid fucking pancakes to some other hipster loser.”

For a moment, I just stand there and plot a new tactic while Nathan brings his attention back to the window. I suck on the inside of my cheek contemplating doing something crazy and when I sigh later on, my determination is renewed. I slide into the booth, on the side opposite Nathan’s, and pull the plate closer to me. I feel Nathan’s eyes watching me as I take the fork and knife and proceed to cut a piece of the pancake and bring it to my mouth like it’s so normal for me to be eating breakfast across Nathan Prescott in a greasy diner.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The pancake _is_ just as good as Joyce’s. I cut another piece and stab it with the fork, doing my best to remain nonchalant. Right before I take the pancake into my mouth, I spare a glance at Nathan and I have to bite down a laugh because he looks _so_ fucking confused.

“Breakfast,” I simply say before biting the piece on my fork.

“Go to another goddamn table cause if your puny fucking brain didn’t realize, this one’s taken.”

“This is my _favorite_ table. I sit here all the time and I refuse to sit anywhere else, so either you leave or we can compromise and everyone can be happy.” It’s not really a lie. Chloe and I sat at this same table so I may have a little bit of an attachment to it.

Nathan scoffs. “You think you can fucking tell me what to do, Caulfield?”

“Pancakes comin’ through,” the brunette waitress announces as she sets another plate of pancakes in front of Nathan, throwing him off course.

Nathan looks up at her and I can just tell he’s trying really hard to control his temper. “I didn’t order any damn pancakes.”

“ _You_ didn’t, handsome. The little lady did. Says it’s for ya.” She winks at me before walking back to the counter and I can only wish I’m not turning bright red. Of course the waitress would get the wrong idea. This is looking like a poor town’s version of buying someone a drink at a bar.

“She’s got it all wrong, I—” I feel the need to clarify my intentions with Nathan but he cuts me off before I could finish.

“I can buy the whole fucking diner if I wanted, Caulfield. So thanks, but no thanks.” He looks me up and down and adds, “plus you’re not my type.”

“I’m aware,” I say flatly. I ignore the latter insult, but I realize I should’ve known that would be what the richest, most stuck-up teenager in town would say if I bought him cheap diner food. “Look, I didn’t mean to piss you off. I’ll just finish the pancakes and go.”

I focus my attention to cutting my pancakes into triangles and when nearly a minute passes in silence, I nervously glance up at Nathan and find his eyes fixed down on my plate like he’d just been watching me. His eyes snap up to meet mine and holds eye contact for two seconds before he breaks it.

He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit what you do.”

“Of course,” I say as I go back to my pancakes.

Nathan leans forward and swipes his digital camera from where it was on my side of the table. He turns it on and plays with the buttons, probably checking his shots. His camera is a _Leica_ _M Monochrom_. This model came out just a year ago and costs about 8,000 dollars. But I’m not surprised. This is Nathan _Prescott,_ after all.

“Careful, Caulfield. You don’t want drool all over your precious pancakes,” I hear Nathan say and I realize I spaced out staring at Nathan’s camera. “Unless you’re into that shit.”

“Gross,” I retort.

Maybe this is my chance. Nathan literally just made a joke. Sure, it’s in my expense but it’s not an insult, more like harmless teasing between friends (which I sincerely hope to call him by the end of this). I could try talking to him about photography. I’ve always wanted to talk to someone my age with good skills and I may not have liked Nathan but even then I couldn’t deny that he knows his stuff. His style is a little dark for my taste though. He entered a photo of a janitor during the night shift at graveyard for the Everyday Hero’s contest and while it looks pretty cool, it’s also pretty creepy. His choice of subjects aside, he’s really got the technicalities of taking a photograph down to a pat.

“Hey Nathan,” I begin. He glares at me and for a second I want to forget the whole thing but I clear my throat instead and try to be calm. “Uh, who’s your favorite photographer?”

Nathan stares like I just asked him something so ridiculous it doesn’t merit a verbal response from him. I start to squirm in my seat and to my surprise, he breaks into a smirk. I didn’t think I was still getting a response to my question until he says, “Nobuyoshi Araki, a Japanese photographer.”

He’s still smirking like that’s supposed to be some revelation but I’m totally lost and I can’t tell if he’d just made the punchline to a joke. Lamely, I reply, “oh, I haven’t heard of his work.”

“Google them.” The smirk deepens. I ignore it in favor of my pancakes.

“So, um—” I think of another question to ask Nathan as I bite and chew another piece. Nathan _actually_   waits. “Are you a fan of Mr. Jefferson’s work?”

Nathan bangs his fist—the one that isn’t holding his expensive SLR—on the table and I’m startled enough that I have to tighten my grip on the fork to keep it from falling.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Max?”

“Nothing, I’m just—” I really don’t understand why he’s upset again. He’d already calmed down. He was smiling—yes, it’s more of a smirk but it’s not a frown. And say what you will but I really thought we were making good progress.

“Is this some kinda fucking dare or something? Did Gayram put you up to this, huh?”

My mouth hangs open but no words escape it. I huff a breath and my next word comes out in half a whisper. “No.” I swallow and I say louder, “no, Nathan. That’s not—”

“So tell me,” he challenges, looking me straight in the eye. He sets his camera down without breaking eye contact and leans forward, taunting me. “Cause if this is a goddamn charity project for that bullshit high school, I’d fucking love to hear it.”

Whatever it is that Nathan intends to accomplish with this, intimidation is far from what I’m feeling as I stare into his sunlit blue eyes. I remember seeing them in a different light: darker, beneath shadows of terror and panic, and I wonder how something could look so bright and beautiful despite the horror it holds so familiar. I find that I can’t bring myself to lie.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Nathan’s scowl deepens and I have to force myself to stay strong and continue but I can no longer meet his eyes. “After you left, I was worried and I didn’t really know how to—” _Help you, befriend you, be there for you._ But I trail off instead and leave it hanging there. I bow my head and hope to somehow find consolation in my pancakes. I think I’ve made things too awkward and honestly I’m not expecting Nathan to say anything anymore. He’d probably get up and leave any moment now.

But Nathan bursts out laughing and throws me completely off guard. I stare at him in disbelief, waiting for him to recompose himself because I’m unsure how I’m supposed to react.

“You’re high, Caulfield,” Nathan finally says, amused for some reason. “I don’t know what the hell you’re going on about.”

Nathan is smiling but I see how unnaturally tight the corners of his mouth are, I hear the slight tremble in his voice, and I know when I look in his eyes that he means neither his actions nor his words. I watch him down whatever’s left of his soda and my eyes drift down to the other plate of pancakes, his plate. I clear my throat and point my fork toward it.

“You should at least try it. I really did get it for you.” I make my voice sound like it doesn't matter to me (even though it does).

“Not hungry.”

“You can’t survive on diet coke, Nathan. I promise, I won’t say you accepted free pancakes from me if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Nathan lets out an exhausted sigh. “I’m on a diet, alright? Even if I want your fucking pancakes—and I don’t—I can’t.”

“Then, just a bite,” I push. I’m come so far, I’m not stopping now.

He stares and I hold it, willing him to break. He relents eventually, rolling his eyes as he picks up the fork and stabs a piece of his pancake. He brings the fork up in front of me and I raise a challenging eyebrow in response. He bites it finally and I feel the corners of my mouth lift in a triumphant smile.

“Happy now?” Nathan asks as soon as he finishes swallowing the piece of pancake.

“Are you?” I ask right back.

He averts his eyes. “Don’t you have to be somewhere else or some shit?”

I’m disappointed he dodged my question but this time, I let it go. I do have to get back to Chloe anyway.

“Yeah,” I say. “See ya.”

“Fina- _fucking_ -lly,” Nathan replies a little too loud.

I smile at him sincerely before taking off to reunite with Chloe outside Frank’s RV.

“Are you okay?” She asks as soon as I get there, an odd look on her face, like she thinks I’m crazy.

“What?” I ask cluelessly.

“Your face—” Chloe’s hands weirdly gesture in front of my face and I have to step back to avoid them hitting me by accident. “You’re doing a shitty impression of the freaking Joker.”

To translate this Chloe-speak, she means I’m smiling so wide it’s freaking her out.

“Nothing.” I giggle. “I just can’t believe I really stole Frank’s keys. He’ll be so pissed.”

“Uhuh,” Chloe says, unimpressed and probably still weirded out. “And if we don’t hurry our asses, we’ll get to see just how pissed he’ll be.”

Chloe can think I’m crazy but if she saw Nathan Prescott secretly eating those pancakes when he thought I couldn’t see him from where I stood by the doors—all because he was too proud to admit it, she’d be smiling like an idiot too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope you didn't google Nobuyoshi Araki's photos in the middle of the chapter like Nathan suggested, especially if you're not at home. Haha. I suggest checking his Wikipedia page instead to figure why Nathan's all smirk-y about it lol. 
> 
> Share your thoughts below! Which direction do you think the fic is heading to? I always welcome constructive criticism. And share something you wish happened for Caulscott in canon~ I'm curious and also open for suggestions. (I may already have some of them planned but ya never know!) Thanks so much for reading this and I hope you'll stick around for the next chapters. I love reading comments and they really motivate me to keep writing. :)


	4. Remorse & Forgiveness

 

           

* * *

 

 

_“We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.”_

― Luciano de Crescenzo

 

* * *

 

           

Rachel Amber is a puzzle slowly unraveling herself, and everyone holds a piece of her: Chloe, Nathan, Blackwell—the whole town. Two days ago, Chloe called Rachel her angel. She said Rachel saved her life. I can’t imagine what it must feel to be called someone’s angel. I don’t think there’s a higher honor than that, for someone to liken you to a being so pure, so immaculate. It seems so unattainable, yet Chloe bestowed it on Rachel. I highly doubt that’s something I could ever live up to but then again, the best kinds of dreams are the most seemingly impossible.

I don’t really know Rachel. Prior to reuniting with Chloe and our investigation, my knowledge of her extended only to her missing person posters and hearsays from Blackwell students. She’s beautiful, smart, compassionate—she even models, for God’s sake. If the rumor mill is to be trusted, Rachel Amber is the quintessential perfect teenage girl. But from what we’re finding out, Rachel has some skeletons in her closet. It’s a little weird, learning all these shady things about her. I feel like I’m a stranger overhearing secret confessions between close friends, which is what she and Chloe are. I’m an outsider. Rachel doesn’t even know who I am and I’m sniffing all her dirt—and in _her clothes_ of all things. David claims she deals drugs and Chloe calls that bullshit but now Rachel’s sleeping with Frank, a drug mule?

Chloe is furious. She’s fuming in the driver’s seat next to me. You could almost see smoke coming out of her ears and if I had an ice-cold bucket, I’d seriously consider pouring it on her head. She’s focused entirely on the road and the lack of punk music from the radio just further thickens this silence in the atmosphere. For five minutes right after we pulled out from the diner, Chloe ranted about how fucked up her life is and how it’s all her dad’s fault. I think she’s being ridiculous but I tried to be the mature one between us and not feed into her anger, rationalizing with her instead. I know she’s just angry and upset, so she’s saying things without really thinking them through. Losing her dad was tough on her and I wasn’t there—but Rachel was. And now she doesn’t even have Rachel anymore. So we have to find her.

Chloe pulls over in front of Blackwell and I look at her, unsure if I should say goodbye. I think I shouldn’t, seeing her unwavering glare at the empty space on the steering wheel. I sigh and step out. Chloe’s truck speeds away mere seconds after I closed the door.

I have class in a few minutes but I don’t feel like attending anymore. School seems like such a trivial thing to concern myself with at this point, with a teenage girl missing, another taking her own life, and a boy somewhere in between. I think I need to take some time to breathe. Everything is happening all at once and way too fast for my own sanity.

The dorms are usually deserted this time of the day. Everyone’s either in class or getting ready to be. It’s almost peaceful like this. I close my eyes to take in the fresh air as I stand a few feet from the entrance to the dorms, and I immediately regret it. For flickering split-seconds, my thoughts are intruded by flashes of the previous day—of everyone looking over Kate Marsh as she took that leap. I lower my head and focus on my shoes on the grass, terrified of doing as much as blinking my eyes. I attempt to catch my breath.

But suddenly, someone is grabbing my shoulder and turning me around. “Rachel,” I faintly hear a voice whisper close to my ear as I am vaguely aware of a hand on my waist and another at the back of my head, tangled in my hair, as my own hands are trapped in the scant space between the two of us. My eyes drift to the figure’s lips coming closer in view—so close, too close—and on instinct, my hands bunch the fabric of clothes brushing against my fingertips. For a moment I think I’ve accidentally frozen time because as sure as I am that the figure’s lips should have already crashed on my own, they have not. Instead, I feel quick hot breaths escaping the stranger’s lips and as they pull further away, my sight catches eyes so bright and blue—and very familiar in its wide and bloodshot state.

_Nathan._

I’m now self-aware enough to register his features and identify him but I hear myself saying his name anyway, as if to seek confirmation. His lips do not answer me this time, but his eyes do as they dart around my face and wander down to glance at my shirt before taking off for the dorms. I find the scenario all too reminiscent of an evening on a rooftop with a boy nearly taking his life and a girl doing what she could to stop him, and as the door slams shut as he rushes off and I’m left alone with an unsettling uncertainty, I decide that I need to be sure of how this ends.

I take off after him but I waited too long to and I don’t see him when I barge through the door. I think fast and head for his room, but apparently not fast enough because I try the door knob several times as if he would leave his door unlocked. I pound my fists on the wooden surface instead, practically shouting his name, as I try not to think of the worst but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Nathan owns a gun and has a ton of pills he can easily overdose on. I’m probably being too paranoid. I’m probably border lining on insanity right now, but Nathan looked too much like he did last night and I need to know he isn’t going to try to do _anything._ That’s all. I just need my peace of mind.

“Nathan! Nathan, please open up!” I scream as I continue to frantically pound on his door.

“Max?”

I quickly spin around and I’m disappointed when I see Hayden Jones standing there with his door ajar. He’s looking at me suspiciously, like he just caught me trying to break into his home.

“Have you seen Nathan?” I ask, direct, not wanting to waste any time. But Hayden squints his eyes in confusion and I have to say his name a little loud to call his attention.

“Uh—Nate’s probably not in there. He’d be screaming at you in seconds if you’re banging on his door like that.” Hayden glances at Nathan’s door and back at me, and my nerves only get worse. I turn my attention back to the door.

“Why are you looking for him?”

I barely hear Hayden behind me while I grab the fire extinguisher and I’m only faintly aware of Hayden asking what the hell I’m trying to do when I hit the knob with it. It breaks and I toss the fire extinguisher aside, grabbing and turning the knob as my heartbeat speeds further.

“Max, what the fuck? Why the fuck are you breaking into Nate’s room?”

My eyes scan the room quick and I see nothing of a mere semblance to what I expected. Nathan’s room is spotless and empty. But my relief only lasts a few seconds as I realize I’ve chosen the wrong place to check first. I curse under my breath and I turn on my heel ready to take off but Hayden is blocking the doorway.

“Not so fast, Caulfield. Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I don’t have time for this. I raise my hand and rewind, mumbling an apology to Hayden. When I finish, I bolt out of Nathan’s room and make a run for the one place I should have gone to first: the rooftop.

I’m breathless when I get there but I force all my strength to push open the door to the rooftop and relief washes through me when I see a boy in a familiar red jacket right there. But finding Nathan is only half of the problem.

I take tentative steps through the door and I have to push away the thought that this is too much like last night. Nathan is pacing, his face wild and restless, and he raises his hands to bunch his hair and tug at them. He drops his hands and turns to his left abruptly. His arms gesture as he speaks and he’s looking straight at… virtually _nothing_.

“You’re right! I deserve to die! I’m a bastard and I hurt people and I need to die!” It’s only when he says this with his voice shaking and nearly cracking after every phrase that I realize he’s crying. My heart feels heavy as I approach him carefully from behind while he continues pacing. I wait for him to stand still before I step closer and bring a hand to his shoulder while he’s clutching his head.

He spins faster than I anticipate and he pushes me hard. “Get the fuck away from me!”

I lose my balance and fall to the ground, my head hitting it hard enough for me to yelp in pain. My head is throbbing a little and I have to hold it between my hands for a moment to keep the world from spinning but it’s nothing that isn’t tolerable.

“I’m sorry!” I hear Nathan say, his voice still shaky as he sobs. “S-sorry! Shit! Fuck! I’m always fucking up shit!”

Dear God. Nathan is on the verge of a breakdown. He crouches down on the floor, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth as he repeats “I deserve to die” like a mantra. I mildly struggle to get up but I manage and approach Nathan cautiously. I call his name, once, twice. He doesn’t answer, just continues muttering to himself.

I cup the sides of his face as gently as I could and I call his name one more time, pleading for him to look at me. He meets my eyes finally and for a moment I’m taken aback by his bloodshot eyes and how they dart around quickly like he’s trying to register every detail of my face.

“Nathan,” I hear myself say in a meek voice. I swallow and hope I sound braver after it. “It’s Max—it’s Max, Nathan.” I feel the need to repeat myself because it feels like he doesn’t know.

“Max?” He repeats so softly I’m unsure if he really said my name or it was just a breath.

“Yes, Nathan.” A breath escapes my mouth as I smile in relief. “It’s Max.”

He attempts to break free from my grasp. “I hurt you, Max. _I hurt you._ I—I deserve to die.”

“Nathan, I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m not hurt anymore, I—” I take his hand and put it on my own cheek to reassure him, and he visibly flinches. “I’m okay, Nathan. I promise. I’m not hurting.”

Nathan looks unconvinced. He glances above me and then meets my eyes with terror reflected in his. “She says I deserve to die, Max. She says I hurt you. She says I hurt her. She says I hurt so many people.”

“Who—who’s saying that?”

“ _Kate,_ ” he whispers harshly like a dirty secret he didn’t want to admit. Fresh tears form on the corner of his eyes as he continues chanting “I deserve to die.”

My mouth is agape as I process this information. _Don’t deny it, but don’t feed into it,_ I tell myself as I try desperately to recall my late night researching on mental health.

“Nathan.”

He doesn’t respond. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Nathan, please, _please_ look at me. Please.”

“I can’t, Max! I hurt you!”

“Then listen to me, Nathan. Kate is wrong. You don’t deserve to die. _Not ever._ Don’t _ever_ believe that.” Tears threaten to fall from my eyes but I blink fast to suppress them and I have to swallow a lump on my throat before I can go on. “You did hurt me. But you’re not going to hurt me now. I _know_ you won’t.”

Several long seconds pass and I feel more desperate than every the last second, but finally, Nathan looks up at me with his tear-stained ocean-colored eyes, noticeably less disturbed.

“I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Nathan goes on to repeat his apology to me over and over. I reach out and embrace him until he’s sobbing into my shoulder. I stroke his back soothingly as he does, and hope with every stroke of my hand that I’m taking away his pain little by little. He’s the one apologizing, but I know he’s really the one hurting between the two of us.

“I forgive you, Nathan.”

I find the words spoken from my lips feeling like a heavy weight being lifted off my shoulders, and this time I allow the tears to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read! It warms my heart to know that this fic makes at least a few people happy. Please leave your thoughts in the comments. I sincerely appreciate all of them! They really encourage me to write more. :)


	5. Layers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super quick update! Apologies in advance for the shorter length of this chapter but I couldn't wait to publish this and the next chapter is still a long way from being finished. Enjoy!

* * *

 

_“When we are touched by something it's as if we're being brushed by an angel's wings.”_

― Rita Dove

 

* * *

 

Nathan Prescott has a certain vibe that just demands your attention when he walks into a room. Whether it’s the confident way that he swaggers across the room or those almost unfairly attractive Prescott genes, he just has this magnetic field around him that makes heads turn his way. That, or maybe everyone developed a sort of sixth sense to detecting his presence so they know when to avoid him and not risk eternal damnation from the heir to the throne of Arcadia Bay. I figure more people will agree with the latter, as he so subtly made me realize seconds from meeting him.

I had just gotten books from my locker in between periods and was on my way to my next class when Nathan Prescott sauntered into the hallway, greeting some members of his prestigious Vortex Club a little louder than necessary. He had an expensive digital camera hanging from his neck, and I remember this specifically because it’s the only reason I was still looking at him. I considered, in a rare split-second of bravery, going up to him and maybe talk about photography—try to make the first step to making a friend for a change. But then as he walked further down the hall, a freshman bumped into him and his immediate response was to yell and threaten the poor kid.

God knows that my constant game plan is to stay away from anything that would direct attention to me but I needed to head that way for my next class, so when I resumed gluing my eyes to my feet while I walked and hugged my textbooks for dear life, I didn’t see Nathan turning my way. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with my textbooks sprawled around me and Nathan was screaming his frustration over ‘fucking Blackwell idiots who can’t fucking watch where they’re fucking going’ or something like that. Then he walked away and I made a mental note to never cross this boy again while I picked up my things.

Obviously, that didn’t go too well. But now, it doesn’t even feel like I’m talking about the same boy. It’s easy to hate somebody when you’re just judging them based on what you’re seeing. We don’t ever consider the person they become when they’re left alone to deal with the demons whispering in their head. I could continue to dislike Nathan for all the things he did but I can’t un-see what I did last night, or today, nor could I pretend that they didn’t happen.

Do I hate Nathan Prescott?

I could. And maybe I should.

But I don’t.

I look at the boy sleeping peacefully on my lap, soft strands of hair that I can’t decide whether they’re colored blond or brown with the tint of the sunlight as they’re tangled in my fingers. The gesture is a little intimate and I can’t lie and say it doesn’t color my cheeks differently, but they’re only left this way because I’d been stroking his hair to calm him before he fell asleep. I asked about his medicine and he’d taken them out of his jacket pocket, and then he was sleeping within minutes. I guess I drifted off somehow after that too. It was comforting in the most innocent way sleeping with a boy on a rooftop could be. Nathan had cried himself to sleep, but not the kind of crying that makes your heart literally ache and has you whimpering softly. He was quiet and calm, and I really wouldn’t have known he’d been crying if I didn’t feel his teardrops on the fabric of my jeans.

I’ve never seen Nathan so… serene. It makes me think of how amazing it is for people to have so many sides to them, layers and layers of different colors and textures, and I’m slowly unraveling all of Nathan’s—past the armor of the confident bully that he masquerades in, through the torn and tattered cloth brought on by unwanted intrusions of his unhinged states, until finally to his raw, unarmed, vulnerable skin. When I think of it this way, I realize how unfamiliar Nathan really has been to me after all.

I feel Nathan stir awake and I promptly release his hair from my fingers. I watch him blink his eyes repeatedly and squint at the sky. I don’t say anything because I don’t know _what_ to say, so I just wait. Nathan sits up lazily and stays that way. His head moves side to side slowly as he scans our surroundings and when he doesn’t say anything, I decide to work up the courage to be the one to initiate the conversation we’re probably both dreading to start.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask, carefulness evident in the tone of my voice.

Nathan doesn’t answer. His eyes continue searching.

“Do you,” I try again, “want to talk about it?”

Suddenly, Nathan turns to me and cups my face, looking intently as if he’s trying to figure me out. I feel my cheeks beginning to warm up and I’m thankful that Nathan takes his hands away then and gazes toward the sky.

He confesses softly, almost mumbling, “it’s hard to tell sometimes, which is real and which isn’t.”

I’m unable to find any words, but I sympathize with Nathan. I read about a Schizophrenic little girl who often touched things just to be sure they were real. I can’t imagine what it must feel to always have to deal with things like that, especially when they aren’t friendly. Nathan sees Kate but she isn’t anything like the Kate we knew, more like the Kate in my nightmare who said horrible things. Except for me, it’s over the minute I’m awake, but the nightmare carries over for Nathan even when his eyes are wide open. Now that I think about it, maybe Nathan was seeing Kate here last night. He was talking to somebody then too. And I didn't know it then, but my singing helped Nathan more than I initially thought. It did calm him but the reason goes beyond soft melodies and gentle lyrics. According to my researching last night, hearing someone's singing gives the hallucinating person a distraction, something to focus on to drown out the intruding voices. Silence essentially amplifies the voices and filling the white noise in by singing or just talking to them, "lowers the volume" to a relative minimum. The voices may still be there, but it makes it easier for the person to push them aside. 

I'm really glad I did my research. I was worried not knowing Nathan's specific disorder would make it difficult, but I'm relieved I still looked up how to help someone in a psychotic episode. Denying the hallucination is a mistake people commonly commit. Telling the person that 'it's all in his head' or 'it's not real' does not help at all, and only makes it worse because it just heightens the person's panic because as far as they're concerned, it's very _real_ to them and being told that they're practically crazy just freaks them out more. Conversely, it's equally problematic to feed into the hallucination and agree that it's 'real' and say that you see or hear them too. The best course of action is to counter the harmful things the voices say and reassure them that the voices, whatever they said, are very wrong. 

“Why are you here, Max?” Nathan’s voice is a little lower than usual and sounds a bit raspy. Hmm. Nathan Prescott’s morning voice. “If you really even _are_ here,” he adds quickly.

“I am,” I say immediately, and I grab his hand to prove it.

Nathan stares at his hand in mine and I can’t read the expression in his eyes as he does.

“And last night?” He asks in a whisper, his eyes still fixed on our hands. And I don't know if it's just the sunlight making it seem so, but his face is certainly reddish. 

“Yes.” I match his tone unintentionally.

The question’s kind of a surprise to me. I didn’t realize Nathan hadn’t recognized me last night. Or maybe he just wasn’t sure it had really been _me._ Maybe that’s why he was acting so normal to me back at the diner. He didn’t believe I’d been at the rooftop too and when I brought it up, he just tried feigning innocence to get out of dealing with it. Maybe he doesn’t want me to know and that was his attempt at convincing me that it _didn’t_ happen—or he was sending some sort of a secret message for me to _act_ like it never happened. Too late for that now.

Nathan breaks his hand free gently and turns to the sky.

“Do you want to talk? I’m here to listen,” I offer.

“Not here,” he says after a moment that I think is too long for my anxiety.

“Okay,” I say and wait for Nathan to meet my eyes, but he doesn’t.

I smile anyway and add, “anywhere.”

It sounds like a dangerous promise. _I’ll go anywhere with you._ Like straight out of a Nicholas Sparks novel, or Stephen King depending on which angle you look at it from. But it’s promises like these that are most often empty, like making plans with a friend that you never mean to push through with. It has a short term purpose, only meant to entice for the moment it’s uttered. But I mean it. It’s a show of trust, not a meaningless word meant to allure. It’s a declaration of support, synonymous to _I’m here for you._ It’s a single word that tells him I believe in him, that I trust him, that he can count on me, and that I won't let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I'm bracing myself for writing the next chapter because from what I outlined, it's gonna have a looot of words. I don't know though, I could be overestimating it! lol Chapter 5 is my favorite to write so far. I had a good time thinking about that metaphor of Nathan's layers... sorry, I'm a nerd haha But the real reason this update is fast is because I already had half of it written a month ago and the rest was already outlined and all the dialogue was finished. I was excited to write this part. haha
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts! I know I say this at the end of every chapter but I really do love reading them! <3


	6. The Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took a while. I'm busy with stuff but I still do try to set aside time for writing this. I hope it's worth the wait! 
> 
> If you caught the last chapter the day I updated it, you might want to check back on it because I added a paragraph there or two.

 

* * *

 

 

_“No, I never saw an angel, but it is irrelevant whether I saw one or not._

_I feel their presence around me.”_

― Paulo Coelho

 

* * *

       

Nathan is driving me on a somewhat scruffy red truck, which intrigues me because I imagine he’d be speeding on a sleek black sedan instead. I’m not going to lie. I am a little nervous about being here, but only because I’m dreading the heavy awkward silence that’s bound to loom over our drive to wherever. I haven’t asked. I recognize the roads anyway, and I think he’s heading to the beach.

His music consists of indie rock, alternative rock, and electropop. _Arctic Monkeys, The Neighbourhood—_ the type of music that I describe as icy, because they give off this chill that shoots straight down my spine in a pleasing kind of way. It’s psychedelic, whispering for me to lie down, close my eyes and just listen as the vocalist tells me, _if this feeling flows both ways,_ then, _he’s_ _sorta hoping_ _that I’d stay._ And _damn,_ I will. I understand why Nathan likes this music. I picture him in his bedroom, sitting down on the carpeted floor with his back leaning on the wooden frame of his bed, headphones on and a cigarette tucked between his fingers. It suits him well, I think. But then a different song plays next and from the lively violin in the intro, it’s clear it isn’t like the songs before it. The vocalist sings:

 _I used to roll the dice_  
_Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes_  
_Listen as the crowd would sing_  
_Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!_

 _One minute I held the key_  
_Next the walls were closed on me_  
_And I discovered that my castles stand_  
_Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand_

Nathan notices the change of pace too, and he reaches forward to switch the station but stops and replaces his hand on the steering wheel, changing his mind for some reason. I’ve heard the song before, but I realize I had taken it more literally and didn’t recognize the potential metaphor behind the story of a king who loses his kingdom when he proudly thought he’d never do, whose citizens want nothing more than his head on a silver platter, and now worries he doesn’t make St. Peter’s list to Club Heaven for all the shit he did during his reign.

 _Revolutionaries wait_  
_For my head on a silver plate_  
_Just a puppet on a lonely string_  
_Oh, who would ever want to be king?_

I look at Nathan and I try to understand the expression in his eyes as they’re fixed firmly on the road. I wonder if he interprets the song this way too, and if he understands it better than I. Nathan is King of Blackwell and virtually everyone hates his ass but they’re too afraid to come forward. I think, while I take in the sunlight tinting his hair a slight orange and brightening the blue hue of his eyes, would they change their mind if they see him like I do?

Nathan pulls over when we arrive at the beach. I sit still as he turns the keys in the ignition and the thrum of the engine shortly comes to a stop. Nathan leans his head back on the headrest, his eyes shut closed, creases on his forehead indicating his apparent exhaustion. He sits right next to me, but he feels so far away. Something in me thinks of reaching out and smoothing over the hard lines, but instead, I just wait. I focus my eyes on the beach in front of us, of the waves dissolving on the sand as the crash to the shore.

I hear the click of the car doors unlocking and I turn to my left to find Nathan’s eyes on me. He averts them promptly and turns the handle, swinging the door open and stepping out. I follow suit. Nathan strides a few feet in front of me, toward the water. He stops just a half step away from it and makes no farther movement. I stay a comfortable distance from him, my eyes fixed on the back of his red varsity jacket. I think of something to say while I watch his head tilt upward and his shoulders rise, remaining this way for a few seconds, before lowering back down. The vibrant red of his jacket pops against the background of different shades of blue. Nathan looks like he belongs in this place, and I wonder if this is something that he does often—taking a drive down here. The words pour out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“Do you come here often?” I wince at my question. It sounds like a really bad, really overused pick-up line.

“Is that supposed to get me to bed with you?” The words are true to Nathan Prescott’s signature brand of rude and sarcastic commentary, and I know he intends for it to be that way but the tone of his voice betrays him. His voice is still low and rough from just having woken up and speaking so little since.

“Of course not.” I frown, but I can’t help the pinkish tint on my cheeks.

Silence envelopes us once again and this time I think I’ve said enough and wait for him to speak this time. It takes significantly longer, but he does eventually.

“What do you want, Max?”

The question surprises me. His tone is flat and somewhat hushed but tinged with suspicion and distrust. He doesn’t face me still. _What do I want?_ From this, from helping him, from _him?_ What _do_ I want?

 “What?” I ask, unable to say anything else in my confusion.

“Money? Is that it?” Nathan says through what I imagine must be grit teeth. I see his hands are balled into fists. _What do I want?_

Do I want something from this? Am I waiting for something in return? Are all these feelings I have about genuinely wanting to help just a ruse for an inner, deeper desire for a reward? But why do I need to _want_ something from this? Does the initiative to extend a hand always come with an expectance for compensation? Am I expecting _anything_ of Nathan for me?

“I—I don’t want anything.” I don’t. I know I don’t.

“Bullshit! Your little friend didn’t fucking want _anything_ either, did she?”

Oh, God. Nathan can’t possibly think that everything I’ve done so far to help him is just some elaborate scheme to gain some sick sort of leverage to use against him, right? But that’s exactly what he just implied and I’m offended and hurt and I can’t believe he would ever think that of me—that _anyone_ ever would.

“I don’t want your money, Nathan!” I exclaim defensively.

“Well, I don’t want your fucking pity!” He roars at the sea, still refusing to face me.

 _Am I doing this because I pity Nathan?_ Neither of us speak for a moment, then two, three. I hear only the sounds of the sea and the birds while I attempt to organize my thoughts.

“Nathan, I helped you because I saw you and when it looked like you were going to—  
j-jump, _it scared me_! I didn’t want you to d-die—” I begin prematurely, my mind tumbling over the mess of words I try my hardest to form with coherence but the growing lump in my throat combined with the pounding of my heart and the liquid obscuring my vision are both making it hard to. “It’s just _so fucking unfair_ for people to be dealing with so much crap on their own and I just—I want to be there for you. That’s _all_ I want.”

I feel hot tears rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them, thankful he can’t see me at first, but then I realize he had probably been able to tell from the tremble in my voice and my little sniffs.

“This place calms me.” I hear Nathan speak, apprehension and spite absent in his tone.

I’m unsure if Nathan is saying this to me or to himself because he is still facing the sea with his back to me. His hands hang loosely on his sides, his fingers uncurled and relaxed. I decide it’s a good time for me to speak this time.

“Is it okay if I ask you questions?” I think it would be wise to get his consent before I subject him to a series of likely sensitive inquiries.

I notice Nathan takes a deep breath and holds it. “Yeah,” he says as he exhales.

“Why were you on the roof?”

“I have a key.”

“That’s not—I mean, why did you go there?”

“It’s quiet. I can think in peace,” he says. “At least not until—”

Nathan trails off but I understand what he means. _Kate._

“Do you—” I begin carefully. “—see Kate often?”

“Just there.”

“Do you have the key right now?” I think he shouldn’t, and if he does, I’ll gladly keep it in his place. He shouldn’t go back anyway and I feel the need to make sure he never does, for his sake and my own peace of mind. He isn’t even supposed to be there. How does he have a key?

“Yeah.”

“Can I have it?” I ask.

His body jerks toward me suddenly, his brows knitted in confusion and his mouth slightly agape. But as quick as the movement is, he turns back away just as fast. His head is bowed down and his hands are balled into fists once again.

“I’m sorry I—” I begin to apologize because I think his reaction is because he doesn’t want to hand the key over to me, but he cuts me off before I could finish.

“No! It’s not—” He inhales a sharp breath and releases it. “Your shirt. You’re looking too much like—”

 _Rachel._ Of course. I glance down at my outfit, and I’m thinking this is a bad idea I should’ve seen coming.

“I’ll take it off,” I say and take off the flannel. It’s not all of it, but it’s most. I figure the bright red flannel is the biggest problem. And at least it’s something. I bunch it up and shove it in my bag, not bothering to fold it.

Nathan had called me Rachel earlier, hadn’t he? At the dorms, right before he reached out to hug me, I heard him say it. He thought I’d been Rachel. Maybe he  _saw_ me as Rachel.

“Is that why you—”

“Why I almost kissed you,” he finishes for me, then adds nonchalantly, “sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Something about that makes me feel… weird. Maybe it’s how easily he just shrugs it off, or how I’m now wondering why Nathan Prescott would kiss Rachel Amber if he thought she’d come back. I didn’t even know they were close. Are they? Or is this some one-sided kind of thing? Chloe hadn’t mentioned anything about Nathan and Rachel.

When I zone back into reality, I see Nathan holding out a red piece of clothing to me. For a moment I think it’s the flannel, but I blink several times and see it’s his jacket. He holds it closer to me.

“It’s cold,” is all he says, his eyes purposely avoiding me.

I accept it, reluctantly at first, but I soon feel the breeze and more than gratefully put it on. I button it up all the way to cover Rachel’s band shirt, thinking it would probably help. Nathan’s jacket is warm and comfortable, and it should be weird to say that about anything associated with Nathan Prescott but here I am. He stands facing me with his hands in his pockets, but his head looks up to the sky. I bite my lip, contemplating about asking him something.

“Were you and Rachel—”

“No,” he replies before I could even finish. His eyes finally meet mine.

I find his piercing eyes a little intimidating, and I have to take a moment to process his curt answer.

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“No,” he repeats and promptly turns his back toward me like before.

It was too quick, but I feel like I saw something in his eyes that look like… sadness, maybe guilt? Is he lying? But why? Regardless, I doubt he’d tell me more at this point. If his body language is any indication, this is definitely the least possible topic he’d want to discuss right now. He doesn’t move for a moment, and I start to think I crossed a line with what I asked him, but eventually he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and fishes out a key. He holds it out to me from over his shoulder. I take it cautiously and tuck it safely in a small compartment inside my bag.

“How did you get a key?” I ask.

“I stole the key from Samuel’s shed and made a duplicate for myself.”

Maybe this is related to that note on Principal Wells’ computer about Nathan threatening Samuel.

“But I swear, Max, I _always_ make sure to lock the door before I leave!” He raises his voice, spinning around to face me, his face wild and frantic. “I swear it!”

Nathan must think I’m blaming him for possibly leaving the door unlocked for Kate.

“I—I believe you, Nathan,” I tell him.

He visibly relaxes. I think, more than me, he may be the one trying to convince himself about it.

“How long have you been seeing—” _Things?_ No. “—them?” I ask nervously. Nathan is quiet so I feel the need to add, “you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Sixteen,” he responds, confusing me at first until he clarifies, “I was sixteen.”

“Do you, uh—” I pause for the right words. “—know why they’re here?”

He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Calm down, Caulfield. I’m not about to snap because of a bunch of dumb questions. It’s Schizoaffective.”

_Schizoaffective Disorder._

“They’re not dumb,” I feel the need to say. I look him in the eye and he holds my stare, slightly taken aback. I don’t want him to think that someone asking about his health isn’t important, that it’s not some stupid small talk. Nathan has Schizoaffective Disorder. It’s not a joke.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“Are you seeing a professional?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“You can talk to me too,” I offer.

“Okay.”

We’re silent again and the weight in the air feels awkward. Nathan reaches into his pocket and takes out a lighter and cigarette pack. He gets a cig and holds it between his teeth while he returns the pack. Both of his hands reach up to the cig, one lighting it up and the other covering to support the sparking of the flame. He takes a drag and blows smoke.

“Problem?” He asks, and I realize I must have been glaring. I’m not big on smoking.

But I shake my head, thinking Nathan deserves this much. It’s just a cigarette. I can endure inhaling secondhand smoke for what, five minutes? I walk a few steps away, closer to the water, both to get away from the smoke and give him space.

We drove back to Blackwell later, and I chose to have the music from the radio distract myself. Nathan took me somewhere special to him, and he opened up to me, answered all of my questions. Now, sitting next to him, he doesn’t seem so far away. He’s closer.

The minute we’re both in the parking lot and out of the truck, I hand him back his jacket.

“Thanks,” I say.

He stares at it for a bit before taking it and putting it back on, his eyes resuming their mission to keep away from me while he does.

“I mean it, Nathan,” I tell him. “You can talk to me anytime.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbles before walking off.

I watch him. And this time, I’m certain he’s going to be fine.

A cold breeze blows through the thin fabric of my shirt and I’m made aware of wearing too little layers for the weather, but I resort to hugging myself than putting the flannel back on. I make my way back to my dorm too. In front of Blackwell’s main building, I see Victoria calling out to Nathan, who ignores her and continues on his way. I stop. Victoria turns and sees me watching, her expression going from hurt to surprised to angry in so little time.

“Max! I should’ve known. Now, tell me just what the fuck you did to Nathan!”

Her sudden accusation takes me aback. “I didn’t do any—”

“Save it! I couldn’t contact Nate for hours. Do you have any idea how fucking scary it is for me every time that happens?”

Victoria is breathing audibly a little fast. I wait for her to catch her breath.

“Whatever. I’m the only person who actually cares about Nathan around here.” She stops and points a finger at me. “So don’t you fucking dare give him shit, Max! He already has enough to deal with.”

“I know, Victoria.” I do.

“No! You don’t. Just leave him alone, Max,” Victoria tells me firmly before she walks away.

But I stop her. “Maybe I don’t want to, Victoria.”

This clearly isn’t something she expects me to say. She faces me slowly, her expression challenging me. But I’m not afraid.

“Maybe you’re not the only one who cares about Nathan anymore.”

Victoria looks me up and down. Her scowl deepens.

“Nathan doesn’t need someone like _you_.” She says slowly, low and condescending.

“I think that’s for him to decide.” I match her tone and glare.

Victoria holds our stare for a moment longer before she walks away.

To her credit, Victoria really does seem to care about Nathan. Maybe it isn’t my place to judge but with her wild partying ways and not to mention _doing drugs_ , I’m not really sure she’s a good influence on him. Maybe Victoria doesn’t know it’s not safe for Nathan. Maybe she doesn’t even know what’s actually going on with him and thinks letting loose, partying and taking a few hits of weed is _helping_ him. I suppose I could tell Victoria all of this, but I don’t think it’s for me to disclose Nathan’s condition. That’s entirely on him.

The steps leading to the rooftop feel like they lead to the deepest depths of my nightmares. The click of the lock as I turn the key and the screech of the metal door as I push it open sound like the cries of crows. And as I make my way in, I feel like I’m descending the steps toward the pit of my fears. But the rooftop is as empty as it could be and bright as the sunlight shines down on it. No Kate. No Nathan. I close my eyes and I recall being here. With Kate. With Nathan. But I open my eyes and the rooftop is still empty. Slowly, I walk forward, all the way until I reach the end. My heart is pounding, but my will is strong. I step on the ledge, the silver key in my hand. I raise my arm, and throw it as far as I could, to the direction of the forest. My eyes shut close, and I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I step back down. I stop to take in the surroundings: empty, just as they should be, before I take my leave.

I make sure to lock the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're free to interpret certain things in this chapter. Keep an open mind and try not to take everything at face value. Given this is from Max's point of view, other characters' thoughts and intentions aren't stated explicitly. Having said those, I want to hear what YOU think! We're moving to the alternate timeline in the next chapter, and I'm very excited to get started on it!
> 
> To save anyone the trouble from googling, the songs mentioned here are "Do I Wanna Know" by Arctic Monkeys and "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay.


	7. Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This chapter was longer but I've had to trim it down to avoid being redundant with canon since we all know what happens anyway. Hope you enjoy!

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Most people never have the opportunity to see an angel,  
or simply do not look well enough to see them walking among us. _

_This, however does not mean they don’t exist._

_Me, I’m one of the lucky few, not only have I seen an angel,  
I call her my best friend.”  _

― Lori Corkum

 

* * *

 

       

My laptop screen spells _Schizoaffective Disorder_ in bold letters as I read an article on the website of the National Alliance on Mental Illness. I did encounter SZD in my research but only briefly so. I didn’t look much into it because it’s considered pretty rare, though this is debatable because most people who have it are often misdiagnosed with Schizophrenia or Bipolar Disorder. Studies show that SZD affects 0.3% of Americans and males usually develop the illness younger than females.

I scroll down for the symptoms.

_The symptoms of schizoaffective disorder can be severe and need to be monitored closely. Depending on the type of mood disorder diagnosed, depression or bipolar disorder, people will experience different symptoms:_

_Hallucinations, which are seeing or hearing things that aren’t there._

_Delusions, which are false, fixed beliefs that are held regardless of contradictory evidence._

_Disorganized thinking. A person may switch very quickly from one topic to another or provide answers that are completely unrelated._

_Depressed mood. If a person has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder depressive type they will experience feelings of sadness, emptiness, feelings of worthlessness or other symptoms of depression._

_Manic behavior. If a person has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder: bipolar type they will experience feelings of euphoria, racing thoughts, increased risky behavior and other symptoms of mania._

I continue down for the causes.

_The exact cause of schizoaffective disorder is unknown. A combination of causes may contribute to the development of schizoaffective disorder._

_Genetics. Schizoaffective disorder tends to run in families. This does not mean that if a relative has an illness, you will absolutely get it. But it does mean that there is a greater chance of you developing the illness._

_Brain chemistry and structure. Brain function and structure may be different in ways that science is only beginning to understand. Brain scans are helping to advance research in this area._

_Stress. Stressful events such as a death in the family, end of a marriage or loss of a job can trigger symptoms or an onset of the illness._

_Drug use. Psychoactive drugs such as LSD have been linked to the development of schizoaffective disorder._

I bite my lip while I process all of this. I’m still a little bit confused. So, is SZD essentially Schizophrenia with Bipolar or Depression? I open a new tab and type _Schizophrenia vs Schizoaffective._ In the videos tab of the search results, a video titled _What is the difference between Schizophrenia and Schizoaffective Disorder?_ catches my attention.

I click on the video and a man with neat clean cut hair, eyeglasses, and facial hair stares back at me, introducing himself as Dr. Grande. He goes on to explain Schizophrenia’s symptoms: hallucinations, delusions, disorganized speech, catatonic behavior, and negative symptoms. At least two of these symptoms must be present for a diagnosis, and one needs to be of the first three mentioned. Diagnosis for Schizoaffective is similar, except for an addition of a major mood disorder: Bipolar or Depression, and this mood disorder must present itself prominently.

To differentiate Schizoaffective from Bipolar and Depression now, a person with Schizoaffective Disorder may have hallucinations or delusions at least two weeks with no major mood episode (mania or depression). Dr. Grande wraps up the video by addressing a common question about Schizoaffective Disorder: is it possible to have Schizophrenia _and_ Bipolar Disorder or does that automatically make it Schizoaffective? He says, “technically, yes” to the latter.

I lean back in my chair and take in everything I just learned.

Nathan has this disorder. He’s had it for two or three years now. Then again, maybe that’s just when he found out he had it but he’s really had it for much longer. I think of him hearing voices for the very first time, confused, terrified, and probably feeling like he’s going mad and out of his mind. I think of him as he was last night and just a few hours ago, how he shook and trembled, then how he eased and calmed down when I held him in my arms and caressed his hair as he slept. And God, I wish I had been there for him the very first time. I wish I was there for the times after that—every single time he had to go through it alone, of nights I slept soundly in my own dorm room while Nathan fought his demons wide awake and terrified. No one should ever have to do that alone. No one.

But even if I had known Nathan and been friends with him that long, I have my doubts that I would have stayed with him. After all, I’ve been friends with Chloe for such a long time and the minute she loses her dad—the one time she needs me the most—I leave and practically erase her out of my life. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I don’t know. I guess I felt too guilty about leaving Chloe in Arcadia Bay and being powerless about it. I couldn’t _not_ move with my family but at the same time that meant essentially abandoning a friend in a time of need. All the anxiety from that made me not want to deal with it and run away instead. Chloe didn’t stop trying to reach out to me but I kept shutting her out, making empty promises to call and write her back. I felt so undeserving of her friendship that I thought it would be better if she forgot about me and found a much better friend. Someone who isn’t me. I’m a horrible friend.

And Chloe did find one: Rachel.

It sounds a little crazy but I feel really strongly about finding her because I feel like finding Rachel and bringing her back to Chloe is my atonement for the missing years when _I_ should have been there when Rachel was. She can’t lose another friend. Not Rachel.

But if I’m being honest, when we do find Rachel, I don’t know where that puts me. I would feel so out of place, so… useless. She’s Chloe’s best friend (or something more), Nathan’s friend (or something more) and right now, I feel like I’m just filling in the void created by her absence. And when she comes back it’s like my purpose is over and done with and I’m ready to be cast aside. Today especially made me feel that, with how everybody kept mistaking me for her.

I remember Nathan’s relieved smile when I approached him at the diner and he thought I’d been Rachel, then his disappointment when he realized it was only me. (I also remember a near act of intimacy some time after that and a casual apology for the apparent mistake but I decide not to focus on it.) I kind of wish it _had_ been Rachel who walked into the diner today, even if it means I wouldn’t. I’m convinced Rachel would do a much better job at this than I am. If only it isn’t _she_ who’s missing.

Sometimes I wish I could do things differently. Sometimes I wish I never left Chloe and maybe then I wouldn’t have to deal with all of this guilt and anxiety. Sometimes I wish we were still kids with all our problems a thousand miles away. We’d play pirate all day again and make silly comics of our superhero adventures. We’d be together, just the two of us. No missing girl. No crazy time powers. No dead fathers.

But that’s not how life works. And all I have of that memory is a photograph.

I take the polaroid out of my bag, the one Joyce gave me this morning before we left, and I sit on edge of my bed as I recalled the day it was taken. This was the last happy photo I had with Chloe before shit went down. Her dad took the photo on his Polaroid camera—the one Chloe just gave me so I suppose I should call it mine now?

I stare at the photo in my hand. I take in Chloe’s long caramel hair, her gray sweatshirt with ‘Arcadia Bay’ in pink, round text. I move on to the girl next to her: her dark brown hair sleeked back in a ponytail, her necklace underneath a blue t-shirt. It’s sad. These two innocent girls smiling in pure glee had no clue that they were just in the lull before the storm and a tragedy was mere hours away from happening.

Still holding the photo in my hands, I hear… voices. Laughter. A girl. And suddenly, the photo begins to move.

“Oh my God,” I say as I drop the polaroid in surprise. “What is happening now?”

I stare at it on the ground, still and steady, and I briefly wonder if I imagined the whole thing. I slowly bend over to pick the photo back up. I hear voices. I see it moving. A crazy part of me is wondering if this is what it’s like to be hallucinating, if this is my psyche finally breaking apart, the screw in my head—which I’ve always suspected to have already been loose—at long last removing itself.

I don’t dare to move. A bright white light consumes me, like the blinding flash of a camera. The next thing I knew, I’m looking at William Price shaking a polaroid photo in the Price house’s kitchen.

“I hope the flash didn’t scare you, Max,” he says, smiling that endearing way I remember he does.

I am scared. But not of the flash. What is this? William is here, and Chloe is just a kid—am I _that_ far back in time?  I look down and see the same blue t-shirt I had in the photo— _my_ _thirteen-year-old self._ My eyes widen when I realize what exactly happened. But I find it so hard to believe. I _jumped_ into a photo. I’m eighteen years old inside my thirteen-year-old self. But this may be my chance. I can make everything better. For Chloe. For me. For Joyce. _For William._

I _will_ make everything better.

So I do it. I hide William’s keys, stopping him from driving in that car and getting into that damn accident. Nobody is going to die now. Not on my watch.

But something very wrong _does_ happen. For one, _I’m in the Vortex Club_. But the real messed up shit is that Chloe has become paralyzed. William is alive and well but Chloe’s in a fucking wheelchair unable to stand on her own two feet. She’s dropped out of Blackwell to focus on her health and her medical bills are drowning the Price family in debt. But guess what? I’m _still_ shitty friend Max who hardly sees her friend in her time of need, dropping a fucking postcard once and sending a bunch of letters and then partying with her Vortex Club buddies while her best friend lies in bed breathing through a fucking machine.

I feel so much worse. Things aren’t supposed to go this way. William is alright but Chloe isn’t. Is this really a better outcome? Chloe doesn’t even know Rachel— _Rachel_ , who Chloe loves and is scouring the ends of the earth for just to see her again, who was there for her when I wasn’t. Now she isn’t here too. The guilt tastes awfully bad on my tongue and I feel sick of myself sitting on this chair beside Chloe’s bed.

She rooms in their garage now. Joyce and William really gave everything they have to make sure Chloe lives as comfortably she could. I can’t imagine how much this must cost them.

“This is a pretty high-tech lair,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Feels like a high-tech cell,” Chloe retorts. “But I am lucky my parents bust their ass to take care of me. I know it’s hard for them.”

I agree silently. “They’re grateful you are here with them.”

“Thanks again for coming, Max,” Chloe tells me sincerely and I notice her voice sounds a little hoarse. “I, uh, need to get my drink on. Can you bring me some water?”

I nod and get up, scanning the room for a glass of water. I see a cup with a straw on a wooden cabinet next to the computer desk and as I take the cup in my hands, I’m reminded of another time when could be handing Chloe a bong instead. Did I give Chloe a choice in all this?

I hold the cup of water close to her and she uses the straw. “Drink up, buttercup.”

“Oh man,” Chloe breathes after finishing her drink. “No wonder my throat is dry. I don’t think I’ve talked this much the whole year.”

My heart breaks at the confession, and I stupidly say, “have you ever thought of doing a podcast or something?”

“I wish I could punch your face right now. A podcast? Dude, I am a pod in a cast. Boring.” There’s the Chloe I know.

“Ouch. It was just a thought.”

“I know you’re just trying to help.”

“Yeah, that’s become a bad habit of mine.” I think of Kate and Nathan.

Chloe and I talk some more and in the end, we decide to unwind, forget everything for a good hour or two and see _Blade Runner._ So I’m going through drawers looking for her DVD when my cellphone vibrates. I take it out of the pocket of my cream-colored jeans. The sender ID says Victoria Chase and I have to remind myself that we’re _friends_ here.

 _Max, are we cool?_  
_Just wanted to make sure since you walked away so fast._  
_Nathan was worried too._  
_If you want to talk, hit me up, k?_  
_Love U!_

I wonder if I should respond but another message comes in before I could.

_Max, if you're mad, just tell me, k?_

Then another.

_Silence. So if you want to talk, my door is open.  
Love U!!!_

I don’t think I could ever come to terms with Victoria being this friendly to me. It’s so… weird.

“What’s up?” Chloe asks and I look up at her from my phone.

“Nothing, just—” I hesitate. “My… _friend._ She’s looking for me.”

“Oh,” Chloe says. “You should go.”

“No, it’s okay—”

“Max. It’s getting late. You can come back tomorrow. You know you can come back, right? Anytime? Not like I’m going anywhere like this.”

I crack a smile and nod. Chloe’s right. It’s not like this is goodbye. I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.

“Okay,” I say.

“I had a great time, Max. Thanks for visiting me.” Chloe makes a face. “Yuck. I sound like a dying old man.”

“Hey,” I say firmly. “No one’s dying here.”

“Okay. Bad joke.” Chloe apologizes. “See you tomorrow?”

“For sure.”

The dorms are pretty much the same so far. Same people. Same girlish smell of beauty products. Same femme punk music on blast. Dana’s door is, as always, also ajar. The music is coming from her room. I stand by the doorway and I’m relieved to see her completely identical to the Dana from my timeline.

“Oh, hi there, Max,” she says and does a little spin for me, showing off her outfit. She’s wearing a tight-fitting black dress. She must be trying on some clothes. “What ‘cha think?”

“Looks good, Dana,” I respond honestly. Dana looks good in anything.

Dana lights up. “Thanks, Max. I hope Trevor thinks so too.”

Trevor and Dana are still a thing here. Some things don’t change.

“I’m sure he will,” I say. “I’m glad to see you guys together.”

“Thanks, Max.” She nudges me playfully, smirking. “You know, someone’s been waiting at your door all afternoon.”

“Huh?” I blink. “Who?”

“Who else? Your boyfriend, of course,” she muses.

I can’t tell if Dana is joking or not. Either way, I’m kind of freaking out. Do I have a boyfriend in this timeline? No one else mentioned anything to me before this and I haven’t checked my journal or my text messages. I haven’t received any texts or calls from him too—which, in case Dana’s telling the truth, I’m actually pretty relieved for. I don’t really give these things much thought, but I do know I don’t want a clingy partner. But who the heck is this guy who settled for plain old me? Though, I suppose the me in this timeline isn’t as plain and boring as I am. Vortex Club member, friends with Victoria Chase and Nathan Prescott? Who would’ve guessed?

Wait. It can’t be—can it?

“You’re blushing, Max,” Dana teases. “Well, are you going to keep him waiting?”

She winks at me and I’m still not sure if she’s serious. If she is though, did he really spend all afternoon just waiting for me? No way. He probably already slipped out and Dana just didn’t see. Yeah, that’s probably it. And there might not even _be_ any boyfriend and waiting and slipping out at all.

Dana bursts out laughing and I’m suddenly conscious about the perplexed face I must be making. “Chill out, Max! I’m just playing!”

I think I should at least try to fake laugh but I’m too confused to react. So, I _don’t_ have a boyfriend?

“I know, I know. You’ve said it a thousand times: you’re _just_ besties,” Dana goes on. “But c’mon, Max. He’s single. You’re single. He’s _hot_. Don’t you at least get, y’know, _benefits_?”

Dana whispers that last word and even though I can’t say there’s any truth to it, I still blush at the mere suggestion. Dana is giggling and looking at me expectantly for an answer but my head’s far off, wondering who she’s talking about. She hasn’t mentioned his name or anything and all I know is we’re ‘besties’, he’s single, and apparently also ‘hot’ by Dana’s standards. That eliminates all the boys I figure _might_ settle for me then.

I shake my head and honestly say, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Dana.”

Dana rolls her eyes.

“Carry on then, Lady Maximus. Your prince awaits.” Dana curtsies and gracefully gestures to her door before turning around to grab some clothes lying on her carpet.

I exit Dana’s room and continue down the hallway for my own room, but just halfway through, I finally see who my mystery boy-space-friend is. I can’t say I’m too surprised. Now that I see him, I realize the hints were pointing to him.

I approach him. He’s sitting on the floor with his back to my door, one leg outstretched and the other propped up with his right arm lazily resting on his knee. His head is leaned back to rest on the door, eyes closed, and earphones on. He’s wearing his usual fashion: gray undershirt, white sweater, dark slim-cut jeans, and varsity jacket—blue, not the red that I’m familiar with.

I hover in front of him. He doesn’t appear to notice me and I’m left awkwardly trying to decide if I should call his name or touch his shoulder to get his attention. I bite my lip while I weigh my options.

I try his name. Once, twice, thrice—a little louder than each previous time—but I don’t get anything from him. He doesn’t stir. I hear his music faintly and I guess it beats my voice in a showdown of volumes. Only one option left then.

I crouch down next to him, tentatively reaching a hand out to gently grab his shoulder. My nerves speed up, remembering the last time I attempted this led to him pushing me hard on the rooftop, and I’m thinking _he’s going to do it again_ but my fingers meet the fabric of his jacket and seconds pass and they’ve not been shoved away. Instead, he tilts his head up.

“Max,” he greets me.

I study him, his ocean-colored eyes meeting mine, slightly squinted no doubt because of the friendly grin he wears. Nathan Prescott is smiling. At _me._ I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this way and I have to fight the urge to grab my camera and trap this image in a photograph that I can stare at in awe forever.

“Are you alright, Max?”

He quickly takes off his earphones and sits upright, his face moving closer as if to examine me for injuries. _Can’t see the damage in my brain this way,_ I think inwardly, before I have to jerk my head back suddenly because he’s coming way too close for comfort. I look down as a feeble attempt to hide the redness in my cheeks.

“I’m fine,” I say. Nathan furrows his brows and narrows his eyes, clearly not believing me. I decide this is the perfect time to redirect the conversation. “W-what are you doing here?”

Nathan becomes immediately flustered. “Uhhh,” he says as he nervously glances around. “Nothing, I was—uh…"

It’s my turn to look at him suspiciously. He throws his hands up in defeat.

“I got worried when you ran off a while ago that maybe I did or said something stupid to piss you off,” he confesses, mumbling slightly, his eyes up on the ceiling and doing his best to avoid me.

Nathan Prescott is worried about me? I try to process this and I find that all I can say is, “you could’ve called.”

“I know you don’t like that!” He exclaims like it’s so obvious, before he adds, “I know you needed space and you’d come back here once you’ve calmed down so I—”

 “—waited here even though you didn’t know when I’d be back?”

He hesitates before answering, “yeah.”

We’re silent for a while. I want to say something but I’m a little overwhelmed by how… _thoughtful_ this Nathan is. This is the first conversation I’ve personally had with the Nathan of this timeline but I can already tell that he knows me so well and respects me—boundaries and all that.

“Why would I be upset with you?” I ask, careful not to sound passive aggressive but genuinely curious.

“I—I don’t know, because I’m a jerk?”

“Did you do something that could upset me?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. I’m always doing something to fuck things up.”

I actually _do_ know what this is. I should know. I feel like this all the time. The thing about anxiety is the only way you  _really_ understand it is if you experience it yourself. The way it makes you think or feel is like an unknown concept to outsiders who find your worries trivial. They don't get why this certain thing makes you feel so guilty even if you know you didn't do anything wrong. Hell, you don't get it either. And they'll never understand just how complicated this is. No, you can't see why this is nothing to worry about. Even if you do, you can't stop worrying. You can't. You try, but you can't.

I lay a gentle hand on his arm.

“Hey,” I say softly, looking at him with the same softness in my expression. Nathan looks at me with his mouth slightly agape. “I’m not upset with you.”

He just stares for a while, then nods in understanding. He looks down, avoiding my gaze again.

“Can I talk to you about something?” He asks somewhat nervously.

“Anything,” I say.

“Can we… go to the roof?”

I want to say no, because the place holds not-so-great memories for us both (except he never lived them, only _I_ did), but I do want to hear what he has to say.

“You could tell me here,” I try.

“Uh—” Nathan scratches the back of his neck and laughs nervously. “Actually, it can wait until tonight.”

“Tonight?”

Nathan looks at me, confused, like this is not something I should be asking.

“It’s Wednesday,” he says like that’s so obvious but I’m still dumbfounded. “Midnight movie night?” He supplies.

I pretend to remember. “Right! I knew that. Sorry, I’m just all over the place right now.”

“Yeah, I get it. S’okay.”

Nathan gets up, putting his cellphone and earphones in his jacket pocket. He holds a hand out to help me up and I blink at it a few times before I even realize what he means for me to do. I take his hand, trying to hide my awkwardness but I think it shows anyway and the fact that this Nathan says nothing of it tells me this is normal for me even in this timeline. Maybe.

He pulls me up slightly and I say my thanks.

“See ya tonight then,” he says.

“See ya,” I reply.

As I’m flashed a boyish smile before he turns and walks away, I find myself wondering, did Nathan Prescott ask me out on a date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't find the info I added about Schizoaffective Disorder annoyingly long and unnecessary but I wanted to make sure everyone who reads the fic knows at least basic stuff about it in case the reader didn't take it upon himself/herself to research on their own. I encourage you to do further reading though! This isn't even the tip of everything I read to understand SZD and even now I don't think I fully grasp it already. 
> 
> I was really disappointed we didn't get to see much of the alternate timeline in the game so I pulled some strings here to have Max explore it more and interact with more people. Let me know what you think and thanks so much to everybody commenting. It really makes me so happy and inspired to keep writing! And I'm very very very excited to write the next chapter and I promise it will be worth the wait! <3
> 
> Sidenote: the video Max watches is an actual video I watched so if you know Dr. Grande irl do let him know I immortalized him in fan fiction. HAHAHA JK (wait is this legal can i include a legit person in this---)


	8. 1 Day, 0 Hours, 42 Minutes, 12 Seconds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster update! I was dying to get started on this chapter and got so much planned for it. I thought I could have just one more scene added here but it's getting too long so I decided to save it for the next chapter. This chapter's all fluff so the angst's coming back like after the next chapter. Haha.
> 
> Gonna go ahead and say that the songs mentioned are chronologically inaccurate because they're released after 2013 when the game takes place but spare me because I really wanted to include them! Love you guys!

 

* * *

 

_“Perhaps children’s innocence, wherever it comes from,  
 contributes to the fact that they seem to see angels more often.” _

― John Ronner

 

* * *

 

           

I spend the next few hours finding out as much as I can about myself in this timeline. The moment I open the door to my room, I already have my first clue to how different she is from me. My room is still messy: books and papers scattered around, clothes on the floor, desk as chaotic as possible, but the way it’s decorated is trendier and much more stylish. The colors are brighter, almost neon, and they really pop compared to the non-existent color coordination back in my real timeline. My sofa is a completely different loud neon blue, my carpet is much larger and orange, and my bedsheets are fuchsia. The wall behind my sofa has a modern abstract painting instead of posters. I notice a purple dream catcher hanging above the headboard of my bed. That’s a cute addition, at least. I still have my guitar and my photo memorial wall, but the guitar’s so unused it’s got dust all over and I don’t recognize any of my photos. A couple of the photos have Victoria or Nathan on them too. It’s still really weird seeing us all so close.

There’s a plasma TV on top of the wooden cabinet next to my bed, beside my hi-fi. It looks brand new and when I come closer, I see a sticky note on the side that says, _happy birthday, Maxipoo! Now you don’t have to sneak into my room to watch your geek movies. – Vic C._ Oh my God. Victoria bought me a TV for my birthday? Damn. _Chase Space_ rules. At least I’m still into my ‘geek movies’ I guess.

I check the small pile of CD’s scattered near my hi-fi. I recognize most of it, save for some new EDM albums, so I assume I still listen to the same type of music but I’m trying to expand my taste. At the bottom of the pile, I find a blank CD. There’s nothing on the cover so it’s just the clear plastic, but there’s a note tucked inside that says, _cool songs u might like._ Curiously, I take the disk and play it.

I hear wind chimes and soft strums of a guitar before the vocalist takes over and sings an indie tune I’m sure I’ve not heard before.

 _I saw a picture of you today_  
_At an art exhibit on memory lane_  
_You wore those bells we found on Champs-Élysées_

I walk to the center of my room and lie back on the carpeted floor, reaching into my pocket to fish my cellphone. I look at the time on my lockscreen—which I only now notice has a selfie of me and Victoria making silly faces. The time says _21:24._ I put my phone down and close my eyes, concentrating on the song.

 _'Cause I'm on my back, on my back again_  
_Words we had to describe the same feeling_  
_Now without a meaning_  
_'Cause I'm on my back, on my back again_  
_Looking at a hole in the ceiling_

The soft guitar melody returns and nearly puts me to sleep, but I open my eyes and stare at the unfamiliar chandelier made out of painted seashells on the ceiling, listening carefully as the vocalist enunciates every lyric.

 _You saved the world_  
_We lived in such harmony_  
_Blockbuster sales in twelve countries_  
_Remembered all these years_  
_Falling like rain_  
_A truth that appears_  
_Oh, the genius of pain, oh_

I find it hard to believe someone took their time to carefully choose songs they think I’d like and make me a mixtape. Although I’m only on the first track, I can already say they’re doing pretty well at it too. I want to say I don’t have any idea who could have made this but I’d be fooling myself. And when the next track turns out to be _Do I Wanna Know_ by the Arctic Monkeys, all I could say was ‘I totally knew it’ _._ I let it continue playing as I go on looking around my room and just as I figure, the songs either have my indie sound or that ‘icy’ alternative rock and electropop. This way, I think he’s saying, “I like your taste in music and maybe you’d like mine too,” and I can’t say he’s wrong.

I decide to look through the endless pit of scattered papers on my desk and while most of them are homework or doodles, my heart drops when I see not one, but _dozens_ of Rachel Amber missing person flyers. The layout is different from the one that’s in my timeline—which makes sense because Chloe made those, and these… I don’t know. All I can tell is for some reason, my counterpart in this timeline is still looking for her. Rachel is _still_ missing. I guess regardless of her ties to Chloe, her destiny remains the same. I feel so terrible. But at least Chloe isn’t hopelessly trying to find her… she’s just paralyzed and doomed to live in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Fair trade-off, right? I run my fingers through my hair in frustration.

Nearly two hours pass and I’m lying on my bed snooping through my phone. Quick summary of my social media presence: I have close to two-thousand Facebook friends, a thousand Twitter followers, and three-thousand Instagram followers. I also like to post selfies of myself, with friends, and my _#OOTD’s_ , which all get at least a hundred likes each.

I’m surprised to see my phone’s photo gallery has like, _hundreds_ of snapshots of Nathan. I’m starting to worry I’m obsessing over him but I finally get to reading our chat conversation history and find that I send these photos to him. Whenever I send one, I caption it with a number that I think indicates how many of these photos I’ve sent. Nathan does the same. He sends me photos of myself that I assume he took and captions it with a similarly increasing number. I patiently scroll through them until I get some clue of why the heck we’re doing this and thankfully, I do find it.

 ** _NATHAN PRESCOTT_**  
_u better catch up  
its getting rlly easy n boring now_

 **_ME_ ** _  
It’s not my fault you’re wayyy better at spotting me everyday_

 **_NATHAN PRESCOTT_ **  
_excuses_  
_just accept defeat_  
_Ψ( ｀ ▽ ´)Ψ_

 **_ME_ ** _  
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Prescott_ _（￣へ￣）_

Nathan and I have this contest where we try to take each other’s photo before the other one does everyday. The number caption is our score, and Nathan is winning by ten points. I note interestingly that Nathan takes my photos in full color. I suppose he’s not using his monochrome digital camera, but a photographer’s style is pretty consistent across platforms and adding a noir filter is as easy as a few taps, right?

We have more of this sending-photos-to-each-other thing than actual convos but we do talk about stuff like photography, music, and movies—normal, random things you talk about with a good friend. We even complain about homework together. Occasionally, I see a message from Nathan at an odd hour that says, _“you up?”_ But I don’t make a reply. And then our conversation continues normally a different time.

I check my call logs later and realize I call Nathan immediately after he asks that. Looking through the rest of my call logs, I find even more calls with Nathan made during the wee hours of the morning. It doesn’t seem to have a pattern of some sort until I notice he’s called at midnight for three straight Wednesdays. Earlier today, Nathan mentioned something about Wednesday apparently being ‘midnight movie night’ so I guess it’s actually a weekly thing that we do? So maybe it _isn’t_ a date then. I don’t know if my sigh means I’m disappointed or relieved.

I sit up on my bed immediately, just now remembering that I should probably get ready. I check the time and it says _23:18_ , so I have just enough time. I roll off the bed and drag my feet to my dresser. I’ve already checked inside of it and I already know I won’t be all over anything I have in there. My wardrobe has been replaced with trendy and stylish outfits—even a few signature brands. I’m more accepting of skirts, shorts, spaghetti strap and off-shoulder tops, and mini dresses. I own a less amount of jeans now and I realize I’m already wearing my last clean pair.

Begrudgingly, I keep my jeans and change my shirt, convincing myself it’s not _too_ gross and hopefully Nathan doesn’t keep tabs on my outfits and doesn’t realize I didn’t change my jeans. I try on several blouses but I always seem to find something wrong with them, whether I don’t like the pattern on it or its neckline is kind of plunging for my very strict standards.

I grab a shirt with a vintage floral pattern and it seems perfect (at least in comparison) until I look in the mirror and realize in horror that it hangs loosely above my bellybutton. I push some of the dresses in hangers to the side, holding on to a small spark of hope that I’d have some old clothes that could save my life but all I find is a familiar black notebook covered in a bunch of random stickers: my journal. I stuffed it deep in my closet? _Who is this girl?_

I take the journal and sit on my bed. I run my hand over its surface and I find it so hard to believe I don’t write it in anymore. I flip through the pages and notice how far apart the entries are dated. My last entry is a week after the one before it and is almost two weeks ago. I start to read it.

_Hey. I know I haven’t written in a while but I haven’t told anybody what I’m about to say here and it’s driving me crazy._

I jump at the feel of vibration on the side of my thigh. My phone is ringing. The caller ID says none other than _Nathan Prescott._ I pick up.

“Hey, coast is clear,” he says and I think I hear him get into his truck. “I’m at the parking lot.”

“Oh uh—” I realize he means for us to meet up there and I frantically look around for a jacket to put on. “Give me a sec. I’ll be there.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey—”

Nathan’s voice is cut off when I hang up. He’s calling back immediately after and I answer again, slightly confused.

"Did you need something?” I ask.

“Why’d you hang up?”

“I, uh—” I thought that was the normal thing to do?

“Keep me on the line, Max. So I know you’re safe,” he tells me calmly. “Remember? We talked about this last week.”

This Nathan is so surprisingly caring. I nod my head distractedly and Nathan calls my name before I realize he can’t see and I have to verbally respond.

“Yeah!”

“You okay, Max?” Nathan asks, his concern apparent, “do you want me to come get you?”

“No! No, I’m okay.” I fumble around for a jacket. “I’m just looking for my jacket.”

“Alright, now get your ass over here.”

I hear Nathan start the engine of his truck. Or at least I assume it’s his truck? I suppose this Nathan could have a different ride. I put the phone down on my bed without ending the call and check the clothes on the floor. I manage to grab a cream-colored cardigan and shrug it on before putting on my shoes. After that, I shove my journal into my bag, hold my phone, and head outside. Slipping out of the dorms is easy because no one else is awake. The campus does feel kinda creepy this dark and quiet though, and I’m thankful Nathan continues to talk to me on the phone.

“Still alive, scaredy-cat?” He teases.

“Shut up, asshole.” That comes out harsher than intended.

“Hey, this whole stay-on-the-line thing was your idea.”

I guess I can figure out why I apparently asked for this. It makes you braver knowing a friend’s just a word away from coming to your rescue in case anything happens. I suppose it’d be even better if he’d just snuck out of the dorms with me but I can guess neither of us want to risk creating any dirty rumors if we’re caught. And it’s certainly easier to be stealthy alone than with company.

I reach the parking lot eventually and it’s only when I’m here that I realize I don’t know which of these parked vehicles is Nathan’s.

"Hey, uh, could you honk your horn so I can find you?”

“What, did you forget the color of my truck?”

So it’s still a truck. Got it.

“No. It’s just dark and stuff.” I say defensively. “Could you, please?”

“No need,” he says and I’m confused until I see a truck pulling out of its parking slot.

I wait for Nathan to drive toward me and in the light of the streetlight, I notice his truck isn’t red. Like his jacket, it’s blue. What’s with this timeline replacing all of Nathan’s red things with blue?

“Made it in one piece! Good job, Caulfield!” Nathan says as soon as he lowers the car door window.

Nathan looks so familiar in that smirk he’s wearing and I’m thinking, he’s still the Nathan I know. Maybe, the caring and thoughtfulness are just… things I’ve yet to see from him. Maybe.

“You gonna keep standing there, or are we watching a movie?”

I smile sheepishly. “Right. Sorry.”

Nathan is driving me on a somewhat scruffy red—blue—truck, The Neighbourhood playing on blast from the speakers. The scenario is familiar, yet it isn’t. His movement isn’t mechanical like he’s immensely tired and just running on autopilot. He’s very much alive and full of energy. He looks so in his element like this, speeding through the road on his truck, nodding his head to the music, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and occasionally singing some of the lyrics.

 _Drivin' through the city with me_  
_Just watching you glow_  
_I'm in the passenger seat, you're in control_  
_It's on you now_  
_Even better every day, I swear_  
_Maybe it's a little unfair_  
_Baby, I'm starstruck by you_  
_Didn't know we'd get so far_  
_And it's only the start_  
_Baby, you got me worried_

“I love this song,” he says in between singing a line of the lyrics and I realize he’s a pretty decent singer. Nathan Prescott, a singer. I never would’ve guessed.

“I can tell,” I say with a smile, watching him.

“It’s just so… y’know?”

“Icy?” I supply.

“Yes, yes! Like it—”

“—sends a chill down your spine?” We both say. And then we both laugh.

“Congrats, Caulfield. Glad to see you’re enjoying more than just indie folk.”

“Hey, I like more than _just_ indie folk!” I retort.

“Yeah, like what?”

“Indie rock, duh.”

 Nathan bursts out laughing. “Right.”

 _Your love is scaring me_  
_No one has ever cared for me_  
_As much as you do_  
_Ooh, yeah, I need you here_  
_Whoa, your love is scaring me_  
_No one has ever cared for me_  
_As much as you do_  
_Ooh, yeah, I need you here_

“Thanks for that mixtape, by the way,” I say.

Nathan breaks into a lopsided smile and breaths a chuckle.

“What?” I ask. The thought that maybe I just assumed it was from Nathan but it actually wasn’t crosses my mind and I feel my cheeks start to burn in embarrassment.

“I mean, I’m glad, but that’s gotta be like the hundredth time you’re saying that.”

“Oh,” I blush, but I’m relieved.

“Which one’s your favorite off it?” He asks as the truck makes a U-turn.

“Hmmm,” I hum in thought. “I’d have to say _Art Exhibit_ by Young the Giant.”

Nathan chuckles. “I figured you’d love that one.”

 _If we fall apart_  
_Maybe it wasn't meant to be_  
_If we fall apart_  
_It was our favorite dream_

“It’s so poetic, and the guitar in it is _heavenly_ ,” I describe in awe.

“And it talks about an art exhibit and your artsy hipster ass feels personally validated?” He jokes.

I find myself laughing heartily. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

 _Your love is therapy_  
_No drug can give me clarity_  
_As much as you do, ooh_  
_Yeah, I need you here_  
_Your love is scaring me_  
_No one has ever cared for me_  
_As much as you do_  
_Ooh, yeah, I need you here_

We spend the next short minutes enjoying the rest of his electropop playlist while we’re cruising downtown Arcadia Bay. The streetlights faintly illuminate the empty streets and it almost feels like we’re the only two people in town. It rains lightly and the traffic lights reflect their neon colors on the wet roads like a painting. I even consider briefly if I should make Nathan stop the truck and take a photo of it. Thankfully, the rain stops and we don’t have to cancel our midnight excursion.

Initially I thought we’d be going to a movie theater or a drive-in, but I didn’t want to ask because Nathan’s only going to get suspicious of me. So I just went along with everything like this isn’t the first time we’re doing this and patiently wait to see exactly what we’re going to do. Nathan drives to a dirt road that leads to a cliff overlooking the beach, on the opposite side of the lighthouse. It’s nice and secluded and the view is just _unreal._ I didn’t even know this spot exists. It’s amazing.

I finally find out that our ‘midnight movie night’ is me and him at the back of his truck with his laptop and a bunch of pillows and blankets. Nathan is on his laptop setting up our movie, which for this week is _Donnie Darko._ I’ve already seen the movie, but I think so has Nathan so I don’t say anything about it and assume we agreed to re-watch it together.  

This whole thing should be weird, but it isn’t. It feels so normal, so safe. I can’t help but wonder if I could ever do this with the Nathan of my timeline, if we’d ever be close enough to the point of sneaking out of Blackwell together to watch a movie at the back of his truck.

It crosses my mind to continue reading my journal then and try and see just what led up to this unlikely friendship, so I look into my bag and it’s only now that I discover even more Rachel Amber flyers inside. I take one out and stare at it in my heads, wondering just _why_ I’m still looking for Rachel if not for Chloe.

But it clicks. I look up at the boy concentrated on his laptop screen and realize, I’m doing this for _Nathan._ But what does this mean? Does Nathan have… _feelings_ for Rachel here too?

“Oh, uh, thanks for helping with the flyers again, Max.”

I look up and see Nathan looking at me with a warm smile. I glance back down at the flyer, at Rachel’s beautiful long hair and perfectly sculpted features.

“Rachel looks so beautiful,” I say.

“Of course she does, especially when I’m the photographer,” he boasts, catching my attention.

Nathan took this shot of Rachel?

“For all we know, she’s just up in LA taking the modeling world by storm, using those pretty headshots I took of her and laughing because I’ve no fucking clue.” He laughs, but it sounds forced.

My eyes soften as I watch Nathan turn to his laptop screen pretending to look unaffected.

“We’ll find her,” I say.

Nathan looks at me slowly, his eyes moving around my face, studying me. He nods, and turns back to work.

I put the flyers back and take my journal out. I remember that I never finished reading the last entry, so I start there.

_Hey. I know I haven’t written in a while but I haven’t told anybody what I’m about to say here and it’s driving me crazy. Lately, when I think about Nate it’s like I get sooo happy instantly. Like I’m on drugs or something—which I stopped doing by the way, he and I both (it’s not good for him). I’ve been friends with boys back in Seattle too but it didn’t make me all weird and jumpy and giddy when I hang out with them._

_I don’t want to tell Vic. She’s just going to assume I have some stupid girly crush on Nate—which I don’t. I think. I don’t know. Nate’s just so thoughtful when he checks on me if I’m being kind of quiet and withdrawn, and he gets all protective when someone tries to talk bad about me, and he makes me laugh with his stupid jokes and sarcasm. And I really like spending time with him._

_It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, especially when he’s got episodes, but instead of wanting to run away from him… I want to pull him closer. No one should ever have to go through that alone. No one. And I want to be there for Nate—_ with _Nate, every step of the way._

 _Gah. I don’t know. Maybe I_ do _have a lousy crush on—_

“What’s that?”

I look up in a panic and see Nathan curiously peering down at my journal. I clutch it tight to my chest immediately. “Nothing.”

Nathan looks at me weird.

“It’s my diary,” I confess, hoping he’d leave me alone if I told him.

Nathan smirks. “Oh, is it?”

So much for leaving me alone.

“I’m curious. Tell me what Journal Max says about me,” He teases, his smirk deepening.

I shake my head. “No way.”

“Wait, I got it: _Nathan Prescott is my hottest friend ever.”_ He winks at me, then laughs out loud.

 I curse my cheeks for heating up and I playfully punch his shoulder. “You suck,” I say through a wide grin that I can’t seem to stop.

“Hey, I have to work hard to look like this,” Nathan says as he gestures to his body. “Those damn pills add a fucking shit ton of weight.”

He does look better—healthier, I’ll admit.

“Okay, fine, I’ll read it to you,” I say, pretending to flip through the pages of my journal.

“Let’s hear it then,” he says with a smug grin.

I look down and pretend to read. “Nathan is a rude asshole who thinks I’m a nosy bitch and hates my ass.”

Nathan scoffs, “yeah right. Lemme see that.”

He snatches the journal from me and holds it up high.

“Hey!”

He stands and begins reading and I try to grab it but he swiftly turns away from me and holds a hand out to stop me. I decide to accept defeat, knowing it’s pointless to keep fighting. I’m turning so red in embarrassment and I’m slightly surprised when Nathan hands me back my journal with his face similarly tinted red.

“Here,” he says and shoves the journal to my chest.

I take it in my hands and there’s an awkward silence before Nathan clears his throat and asks if I want to start watching the movie. I nod a little too enthusiastically and Nathan gets to moving. I think I notice the ghost of a smile on his face as he works on his laptop. Nathan Prescott, flushed and flustered. It makes me smile too, and I’m thankful it’s not particularly bright where we are so he doesn’t see.

I’ve probably seen _Donnie Darko_ at least thrice but it’s always so confusing. At the end of the movie, I say that I have no fucking idea what happened and to my surprise, Nathan promptly explains about how the film takes place in the _Tangent Universe_ for the most part, that the jet engine is the _Artifact_ , Donnie is the _Living Receiver,_ Frank and Gretchen are the _Manipulated Dead,_ and Donnie’s parents and everyone else are the _Manipulated Living,_ etc. I think I zoned out pretty quickly because I’m too fascinated by how Nathan talks about the movie so passionately.

“I’m surprised you got _all_ of that,” I say.

“Well, you don’t get it the first few times. You gotta see it a bunch of times and—” He pauses to breath a laugh. “—read on the internet for a bunch of smartasses to explain it for you.”

I chuckle. “How many times have you actually seen _Donnie Darko_?”

“I don't know. A hundred, or something. You know it's my favorite movie."

I nod, but I inwardly feel guilty because I don’t.

“Remind me again, why is it your favorite?” I try.

“I told you.”

“I forgot.”

“Ouch.”

“Refresh my memory? I really want to know.”

Nathan stares for a while, then nods. “Okay, but I won't forget that you weren't paying attention when I told you the first time.”

“I'm sorry, Nathan. Will you _please_ tell me?” I tease.

“Okay, if you insist,” he teases back, chuckling a bit.

“I had an imaginary friend, right? When I was five or something? He was a giant bunny I called—”

He expects me to supply but I just stare so he continues, “Edgar—Mr. Edgar the Bunny. I don't really remember. I have old drawings of Edgar, and Mom and Kris remember me telling them about Edgar and stuff but when I was ten...”

I think I know where his story is leading, so I make an effort to supply so Nathan's suspicions of my sudden forgetfulness goes down somehow. “You saw him again.”

Nathan nods. “Yeah. I was at the playground and the stupid ball rolls to the other side of the road and when I was about to cross to come get it, Edgar was right there, standing next to my basketball. He motioned for me to walk to him but I freaked out and I ran back to my friends and told them a giant bunny stole our ball. So they ran back with me and Edgar was right there but... he's not. My friends couldn't see him. That really fucked with my head so whenever I saw Edgar again, I just... didn't say a word.”

He goes on, “One day Kris rented this DVD of some movie with a creepy bunny head on the cover and I know I was probably too young to see the movie but I sat down and watched it with her and... I don't know, somehow, it felt kind of comforting that someone else was going through the same thing I was. I didn't really get that he was sick, or that I was. I was just a kid. But I felt... y'know, _understood_. Of course, six years later, I'm diagnosed and the rest is history.”

I take my time to process this before asking, “do you still... see Edgar?”

Nathan lets out a chuckle and points to a spot just a few feet from the truck. “Yeah, he's right over there watching us, actually.”

I grab his arm instinctively in fear and look to the direction he’s pointing to.

Nathan bursts out laughing. “I'm fucking with you, Max. I haven't seen Edgar in years.”

I lightly push him. “You're an asshole.”

“Hey, even if he was here, it's not like you'd see him anyway.”

I retaliate, "no but _you_ will. I don't have to see it to know it's scary, Nathan.”

Nathan is a little taken aback. He smiles. “Hey, it's not that bad. I'm on my meds now, I go to therapy with Dr. Jacoby, and I have—” He looks at me and stops himself short for some reason. He breathes a laugh. “Besides, he doesn't look as scary as Frank the Rabbit. He's more of a fluffy Bugs Bunny.”

Nathan does a hilarious Bugs Bunny impression, trying to mimic the rabbit's huge front teeth and saying his catchphrase, "what's up doc?"

He looks so incredibly silly and I’m thinking I never thought I’d ever see Nathan Prescott goofing around like a normal kid. I’m not surprised when a genuine, almost crazy, high-pitched laugh escapes me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate how we hardly see Nathan and the other characters in the alternate timeline in the game, but I have to admit that I love that it gave me so much creative freedom. Sooo I kind of went a little crazy here and thought of a lot of fluffy stuff. (There's even more in the next. Somebody stop me.) But you might be wondering why Max is still listening to the same type of music and so is Nathan, but I want to eliminate the thought of stereotyping characters like, "oh she's popular so she should be listening to party songs now right?" People aren't like that irl. A jock could totally be into indie and such. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments! You guys have no idea how giddy I get when I get email notifications about them and I know I suck at replying but I do love and appreciate you guys so much. <3 
> 
> PS  
> Somebody needs to make a Caulscott edit of Scary Love by The Neighbourhood. Also, the chapter title is a _Donnie Darko_ reference, if no one caught that.


	9. Stop the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I really update A DAY after I just put up the previous chapter??? YES, BECAUSE I LOVE YOU PEOPLE! ~~(I'm also on my term break and have a lot of time on my hands)~~
> 
> More fluffy stuff from the alternate timeline~ also, '80s music! Curiously, do you guys play songs mentioned in a fan fic as you read the scenes they're featured in? If not, it might make the experience a little better. Let me know if you try that! Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

_“I was so blessed._

_The first person I gave my heart to was an angel_  
_who plucked the feathers off his wings_  
_and built a nest for it.”_

― Kamand Kojouri

 

* * *

 

           

Nathan and I lie in the back of his truck beneath the stars of the Arcadia Bay night sky, just inches apart, the dark electropop sound of _Nervous_ by The Neighbourhood the background music of our little moment. It’s like we’re in an indie movie, two best friends—one boy, one girl—doing something intimate enough that it should be between couples and not friends but neither think it’s awkward in spite of it. They don’t think about it. They’re just living in the moment, not a care in the world.

Nathan’s head is right next to mine, but we lie opposite each other. I can’t stop thinking about how a timeline exists where Nathan is my best friend, where we go on midnight drives, and lie down stargazing in the back of his truck. It makes me wonder if the Nathan in my timeline could ever be like this if I had befriended him earlier. And for a split-second I blame on temporary insanity, I wonder if I could travel farther back in my real timeline to do just that.

“Nathan,” I say, my eyes glued to the gorgeous night sky.

“Mm?” He hums lazily in response.

“Do you believe in time travel?”

“Time travel,” He repeats. “That’s pretty random.”

“It just got me thinking, y’know,” I explain, “Donnie believes he time traveled, right? But did he? Or is he just having an episode of his Schizophrenia?”

“They made it vague enough so it’s up to interpretation by the audience but how do you explain the _very real_ jet engine that kills him in the end?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe that’s a real, unfortunate accident, but everything before it was a hallucination.”

“Mm,” Nathan hums in thought. “I like to think time travel is possible. Surely makes it easier every time you fuck something up.”

“If you could time travel, what would you change?” I ask.

Nathan surprises me when he replies quickly, casually, “nothing.”

“Nothing?” I repeat. “Really? You won’t change a thing?”

"Well, it’s a _butterfly effect_ and if I go back and change something—no matter how small it seems, I may never end up lying here in my truck with you,” he explains. “So, yeah. Nothing.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know if Nathan realizes how much his words mean just now. He drops them so casually but he practically said he wouldn’t even want to erase anything painful he had to go through just to preserve this moment with me.

The song ends and the next that plays is one that I instantly recognize from the soft piano intro.

_Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes_

I ask him, thankful because it spares me from having to think of something to change the subject with, “you listen to that?”

Nathan gets up to change the song and the guitar intro of what sounds like a stripped down indie cover of  _Wonderwall_ by Oasis lightly fills up our atmosphere.

 _Today is gonna be the day_  
_That they're gonna give it back to you_

Nathan retorts, “it's on shuffle. And don't get all judgmental on me when you're the one who told me about that song in the first place.”

 _By now you should've somehow_  
_Realized what you gotta do_

I realize that somehow, the me in this timeline found herself singing the song to Nathan too. I’m glad to know I helped him here too, and more than I did in my own timeline. Nathan is so happy here. He deserves this much.

 _I don't believe that anybody_  
_Feels the way I do about you now_

Nathan lies back down next to me after changing the song and I remember him saying back outside my room that he wanted to talk to me about something tonight.

“Hey, didn’t you want to talk about something?”

“What?”

_There are many things that I  
Would like to say to you but I don't know how_

“Earlier today you said you wanted to tell me something?”

 _Said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me_  
_And after all, you're my wonderwall_

“Oh,” he says. “Guess I forgot.”

I have my doubts, but I don’t press the topic. A cold breeze blows through and I instantly feel chilly. This damn cardigan isn’t thick enough for this stupid crop top. I bunch my blanket up and pull them closer to cover me more.

“Cold?” Nathan asks, having noticed me.

“Yeah.”

“Wanna borrow my jacket?”

“I’m good.”

Nathan takes his jacket off anyway and hands it to me.

“Just take it, Max,” he says. “Don’t be so stubborn.”

I hesitantly take it, thanking him, and as I put it on I think that Nathan’s jacket is really starting to feel homey. I close the latter two buttons and put my hands inside the pockets. I feel something inside of it and grab it, taking it out for me to see what it is. It’s Nathan’s pills. The bottle is full.

"Don’t freak out,” Nathan says. “It’s new. Just got it today. I’m not skipping my meds.”

I infer this timeline’s Max makes it a point to make sure he’s taking his medicine. I ask if it’s hard, always having to take these pills and dealing with his disorder in general. Nathan says it is, but it’s harder without the medication.

“You know, Max. You saw me.”

I only know what I saw from my timeline’s Nathan. I don’t know what this Max saw. Guilt doesn’t taste good on my tongue.

“Max, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. You turned my whole life around. Knocked me out of that crazy, wild, partying maniac trance I was under, made me better, sober. If you hadn’t—God, I’d probably be dead. I owe you my life, Max.”

Nathan is looking right at me, his blue eyes piercing, familiar but unfamiliar. His eyes are brighter, calmer, but just as beautiful as I remember them to be.

“Nathan, I—” I start, breathy, overwhelmed by his honest confession.

Nathan furrows his brows. “Why do you keep calling me Nathan? It's Nate. It's like we're not best friends or something.”

Nathan must've been bugged by me calling him 'Nathan' all night but only brings it up now. I still can’t get my head around how I got close enough with Nathan to call him by his nickname, something I only heard Victoria and Hayden call him.

I decide to try to lighten up the atmosphere and tease him. “What’s wrong with _Nathan_? It’s a nice name.”

He teases me back, “yeah, you think it’s cute, hm, _Maxine_?”

God, I hate my name. But hearing it slip off his lips, he makes it sound so beautiful. I blush, unable to make a witty comeback, or say anything at all.

“Seriously though, why do you hate it so much?” He asks. “I think Maxine’s really pretty.”

I blush so much harder at that and I hope to God the stars aren’t bright enough for Nathan to notice.

“For a name,” Nathan adds quickly. “It’s a really pretty name.”

I knew Nathan meant the name and not _Maxine—_ aka me—but I still couldn’t help turning red as a fucking tomato. At least I’m not the only one though. Nathan nervously scratches his head and I bury my face in his jacket to hide my embarrassment. It does little to help though, because it smells just like him.

Nathan turns to me. "Hungry?"

I’m about to say no when my stomach makes a sound that means the absolute opposite of that.

Sneaking out of Blackwell, midnight driving, stargazing—what’s next? Two Whales at three in the morning. We decide to grab a bite here and I have to admit, I’m starting to miss the greasy place too.

A familiar blonde lady greets us as we enter.

“Welcome to Two—” She stops short upon looking up from the counter and seeing me. “Max Caulfield! At this hour?”

Joyce still works at Two Whales, huh? I can’t help noticing how much more tired she looks. The circles under her eyes are darker and bigger.

“Hey Joyce,” I say and I hear Nathan enter after me. “Working overtime?”

"Fillin’ in for a sick waitress,” she replies. “What can I get you kids?”

“Uh, pancakes?” I glance at Nathan for confirmation and he smiles so I turn back to Joyce. “Make it two.”

“Find yourselves a table and I’ll be right on it.” Joyce gestures towards the empty tables on our right before disappearing into the kitchen.

“After you,” Nathan says and motions for me to walk.

It’s weird that just the other day, albeit in a different timeline, he and I were at this same diner having pancakes. I smile at the thought, and I decide to sit at the same booth just for irony’s sake. I even make sure to sit on the same side. We smile at each other when we’re both settled.

The diner is quiet. There’s no other customers but two truck drivers on the other end, who I recognize from my timeline. There’s nothing to hear but the occasional clang of kitchen utensils and the constant hum of the ceiling fans. I’m unable to stifle a yawn, and shortly after I do, Nathan does too. We look at each other and burst into chuckles.

“So we mutually agree we’re both really fucking dull company, huh?” He jokes.

I laugh, and I surprise myself when I say, “are you kidding? I'm having so much fun.”

Nathan retorts, “yeah I can totally tell by your yawning.”

“It's three a.m. Cut me some slack, Nate.” I say his nickname finally, and it feels much easier on my tongue than I expect. He cracks a smile.

Joyce emerges from the kitchen to play a song on the jukebox. I watch her as a popular ‘80s tune fills up the diner, and she smiles at me before heading back behind the counter.

“I know just how to wake us up both,” I hear Nathan say and I turn back to him with a curious eyebrow raised.

“How?”

Nathan stands up, to my confusion. “Where are you going?”

He holds a hand out to me. “C'mon, just trust me.”

I laugh nervously, “what are we going to do?”

Nathan asks, maybe a little too intently, “Max. Do you trust me?”

I’m slightly taken a back, but I find it in myself to respond, “of course I do.”

Nathan breaks into a charming lopsided smile. “Take my hand.”

I do, and Nathan pulls me nearer to the jukebox, in the middle of the open space.

 _Moving forward using all my breath_  
_Making love to you was never second best_  
_I saw the world crashing all around your face_  
_Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace_

He takes my hand and twirls me, and it surprises me to the point I’m tripping backwards.

“I—I don't know how to—oh!"

I clutch his shirt with my free hand on instinct and he’s quick to wrap an arm around my waist to catch me.

“Hey, I got you,” Nathan says.

I look up to flash him a smile and he carefully supports my back, guiding me to stand up straight. He spins me again. This time, I actually end up doing it right, which is a big surprise to me. I breathe a laugh in triumph because I’m definitely not a dancer. Nathan will have better luck teaching a fish to dance than teaching me.

 _I'll stop the world and melt with you_  
_You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time_  
_There's nothing you and I won't do_  
_I'll stop the world and melt with you_

I’m pretty sure we’re not dancing to the rhythm in the slightest, but I’m also sure neither of us actually care. We’re dancing like drunks and laughing like idiots, awkwardly wobbling and occasionally stepping on each other’s feet. But with or without time powers, I’m sure as I see the world in his eyes, that it does stop for the both of us in this moment. Because when the music transitions into gentle strums of an electric guitar as the vocalist hums softly to us like a lullaby, we both discover that all it takes to control time is to hold someone closely in your arms, drowning out the rest of the universe.

I hear the sound of a cough and we both break apart and see Joyce standing there, watching us. We instantly blush hard.

“I hate to interrupt but I thought I’d let you know your food’s ready,” she says, fully aware of how awkward the situation is.

She exits no less awkwardly and leaves us. Nathan chuckles and I glance at him curiously. He meets my eyes, still laughing, and the giggles catch up to me too.

“Joyce has _the_ best pancakes,” Nathan says before taking his last remaining bite.

“I know. No one can resist them,” I say with a smile, thinking of Nathan stubbornly trying to refuse them and failing in my timeline.

Nathan takes a gulp of his soda and exhales in relief.

“That was great,” he says. “Hey, I’m gonna go to the restroom real quick. Be right back.”

I nod and watch as he walks to the restrooms at the other end of the diner. I feel Joyce’s eyes on me from the counter and soon enough, she’s making her way to me. She sits down on Nathan’s spot.

“Pardon my being intrusive, Max, but I can’t help notice how… _cozy_ you’re getting with Nathan,” she says, emphasizing the word _cozy_.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I wait.

“That boy’s family is nothing but trouble,” she warns, and I realize what she’s trying to tell me.

“I know, Joyce,” I say. “But Nathan _isn’t_ his family.”

“He carries their name, one day he’ll get their treasures too,” Joyce explains. “Sean Prescott wasn’t always the bastard he is now back in our days, y’know. Power changes people.”

“People change people too,” I find myself saying, thinking of Nathan’s confession earlier tonight. “Nathan’s come so far. He isn’t the troublemaking boy you think he is anymore. He’s different. He’s not his father.”

Joyce sighs. “Well, if you say so. Just… watch out for yourself, Max.”

Nathan emerges from the restroom. He’s looking curiously at Joyce as he walks and I flash him a reassuring smile. Joyce appears to notice. She stands up, dusting off her apron.

“Nathan,” she greets with a smile that I think is fake.

“Joyce,” Nathan greets back, a more honest smile on his face, before he slides back into the booth.

Joyce nods to me and goes on her way. I don’t blame Joyce for feeling this way about Nathan. The Prescotts don’t have the best reputation in my timeline, and I suppose neither do they in this one.

“What did Joyce say?” Nathan asks.

“Nothing, just small talk,” I lie. “She really missed me.”

Nathan nods, apparently convinced. “She works for Dad, y’know. She’s an agent for Pan Estates.”

Joyce works for Sean Prescott?

“I’ve seen her a few times. I think she has a daughter who got into an accident or some shit?”

“Chloe,” I say fondly.

“You know her?” Nathan asks curiously.

“Yeah, we’re like best friends,” I say enthusiastically and Nathan furrows his brows. “I mean—when we were kids. We were pretty close.”

“Oh,” Nathan says in somewhat of a disappointed tone.

“What?” I ask.

“What?” He repeats, a forced nonchalant expression on his face that’s so obviously fake.

It clicks for me. “Are you jealous?”

He scoffs, “why would I be jealous?” His tone is so loud and exaggerated he might as well have just screamed yes. I don’t press it though.

“If you say so,” I say, sing-songy. Nathan is _so_ jealous. It’s kind of adorable.

The radio’s playing _Everybody Wants to Rule the World_ by Tears for Fears as we’re driving back to our spot at the cliff. We aren’t speaking, but the silence isn’t thick, it’s light and comfortable. We just let the lyrics flow between us and take in the sound of the music. I don’t think either of us typically listen to this type of music, but I can guess why neither of us are moving to change the station. I wonder, is it really possible to feel so nostalgic about a decade you weren't even born to witness? Regardless of that, I think the distinct sound of ‘80s New Wave will always mean something to us after tonight.

When I wake up hours later, I’m still on the passenger seat of a boy’s truck, his head on my lap and my fingers entwined in the soft strands of his hair. I run my hands through them, thinking about how identical this boy looks to the boy I last did this to, once upon a time, in spite of his very different life. These timelines seem to really enjoy paralleling each other in some ways. I wonder, does this mean that deep down, that boy could be as happy as this boy on my lap right now? A somewhat sad smile crosses my face at the thought.

Nathan stirs awake and opens his eyes, instantly breaking into a charming, lazy smile as he sees me peering down at him.

“Hey,” he says, his raspy morning voice making me shiver.

“Good morning,” I say.

“What time is it?” He asks.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. “Seven o’clock.”

He rubs his eyes and sits up, sparing me a smile before moving to adjust himself back on the driver’s seat.

“Back to Blackhell,” he says as he starts the engine.

“Actually, could you drop me off somewhere?” I ask, remembering a promise I made yesterday.

Nathan faces me. “Where to?”

I tell Nathan that I promised to visit Chloe today, and he gladly drives me to her house. It’s ironic. In my own timeline, Nathan and Chloe are practically mortal enemies but here he’s so willingly driving to enemy territory. The thought almost makes me laugh.

“Thanks,” I say as soon as we arrive in front of the Price house.

“It’s a short drive,” Nathan responds. “No big deal.”

“I mean, for last night,” I hesitate before I add, “ _Nate_.”

Nathan nods. “Yeah.”

I smile at him before I move to turn the knob on the passenger door but suddenly, Nathan grabs my hand. I look back at him and my heart skips a beat seeing him so close and looking at me so intensely.

“Wait,” he says. I do.

He pulls his hand away fast like I burned him and he turns away, his cheeks flushed. I don’t know what’s happening except that my heartbeat is racing so fast and pounding so hard I’m afraid it might fall off my chest. Neither us speak for a painfully long moment, in which Nathan looks around at everything _except_ me. He looks like he wants to say something but he’s so incredibly nervous and seeing him this way starts to make me nervous as well, trying to anticipate what he’s about to say.

“I like you, Max,” he breathes out, and his eyes snap up to meet mine as soon as he does.

I stare back at him speechless, my only response being my mouth agape and my cheeks blushing bright pink. This must be what Nathan’s been meaning to tell me but keeps putting off. I’m too shocked to respond and frankly, I feel it isn’t my place to. I’m not the Max that this Nathan fell head over heels for. I’m not the Max who answered his calls in the wee hours of the morning, goes on midnight drives with him, and tries to secretly take his photo everyday. It feels wrong to answer on her behalf when I’m not even sure what she’d say.

Nathan breaks our eye contact. “Forget what I said. It’s stupid.”

I find myself reaching out to cup his cheeks and turning his head to face me again. “No, it’s—it’s not stupid, Nathan. I just—”

Nathan flashes me a sad smile and brings his hands up to carefully remove my hands from his face. “It’s okay, Max.”

He faces straight ahead, staring far off into the distance. “I guess I just thought—” He bites his lip and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters, Nathan.”

“We’re best friends. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

He refuses to face me now and my heart sinks. I don’t think there’s anything more I should do or say, so my fingers coil around the handle of the passenger door ready to leave, but I lift them off again.

“You are a great guy, Nathan. Last night was _amazing_ and I swear, I’ve never felt _anything_ like that in my life. But right now, I—” I pause to catch my breath. “—I just don’t think I should answer you.”

Nathan nods slowly.

“I’ll… see you in school?” I ask nervously, hoping this doesn’t change anything between us.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, eyes still averting me.

I turn the knob finally and step out, feeling my heart break into pieces. It hurts he and I both, but I stand by what I said. It isn’t fair for either of us. It would be wrong for me to answer him. But I find myself wondering what this timeline’s Max— _his_ Max—would say. I recall her last journal entry and as I watch his truck drive away until it disappears from sight, I conclude she would have said that she likes him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last part's like a segue back to the angst coming in the next chapter after all the fluff lol I hope I didn't break your hearts too hard!
> 
> I'm gonna break my fast update streak now and prolly go back to my usual pace cause I am running behind on my other commitments. So, see you guys again after a while! I promise I will do my best to make it worth the wait! <3 Love you all!
> 
> PS  
> Definitely check out Ryan Adams' cover of "Wonderwall" because it sounds absolutely heavenly.


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